


Francis

by TotemundTabu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Human AU, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2301467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotemundTabu/pseuds/TotemundTabu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genre: Romance/Drama - Rated: M - FRUS - Human AU<br/>A chef who just wanted Love and never found it hires a young actor, full of dreams and with a very blunt personality. The secret of every recipe is in the equilibrium of the spices and the line between disaster and sublime is extremely thin. - FRUS, long story</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**Francis**_  
  
 _ **#1**_  
  
It was 3:26 AM and everything was stained by blue.  
The moon danced over the lake and its shining skin, reflected, brighted up the water and the woods around. The white walls of his room fluctuated wavering between midnight blue and slow ghosts of cobalt.  
He felt underwater.  
But with no struggle to breathe, no struggle at all.  
He was already a resigned corpse at the bottom. The bottom of everything.  
He sighed, slowly, feeling the lungs filled with the invisible sea and then emptying them and his heart in a whistle.  
How was it? Ah, crowded desert called Paris...  
He was rotting somewhere, inside his own heart, laying in that ghastly moon of his own room.  
The wind knocked on the pearl curtains, letting them float, like jellyfishes, in an aquarium of solitude.  
3:27 AM.  
"Might as well get up...", he mumbled, lifting from the bed.  
He didn't even took off the sheets nor the clothes - he didn't find the energy to - so he didn't have to cover himself nor to make the bed. He scratched his hair, without finding comfort even in that little spoiled vice he inherited from his mother.  
The cat rubbed against his ankles and calves, purring.  
"Want food, meringue?"  
A smile, while they walked together, side by side to the kitchen - the Turkish Angora kitten meowed and jumped on the counter, where he received a little bowl with some raw meat and tuna.  
"Special treat. - he chuckled - Picky cat."  
A meow as thank you made him smile.  
He went out , keys into the jeans pocket, dreams between the sheets, walking slowly into the sweet night.  
It's not like his mood already changed, but he felt that need: going in the kitchen, preparing something and throw all his soul into it, sweating the pain away. Bad thoughts can be cried out better with a spatula, that's what he thought.  
He lit up a cigarette, breathing in the tender white smoke.  
It was over, again.  
His relationships never seemed to last more than four months; four beautiful months, for sure, with majestic sex, candle-lit dinners and spicy fun. But. No love.  
No love at all.  
And living without love was like drinking bad wine.  
Even the moistest moan and the most drenched pleasure had no appeal, like a dish with no spices.  
He kept waiting for it to happen, relationship after relationship, year after year, reading poems he couldn't feel completely his; but it never came.  
He arrived at the restaurant, grabbed an apron and started dicing the onions and the leeks finely; he threw them in a pan with oil, poured a bit of white wine, a whistle, and then the smell invaded the kitchen, like the first song during a ball.  
He picked and cleaned the fish, caressing it lovingly with a knife, while humming a old motif- he cooked it with the soft, kindly tasting, cream. Salt, three colours of pepper, chives and persil. What else?  
A pinch of curry powder maybe, but still...  
He thougth about his mother's braid, of its soft colour, and the smell of the sunday's kitchen.  
Cinnamon, he decided, humming a bit louder.  
He smiled and, as soon as the food was ready, he sat on the small table near in the corner of the kitchen and tasted it, with some fresh bread.  
He would have never cooked that for the restaurant: too home-like. But that night, at 4:58 AM, with his heart bruised and tired, he just followed a old melody lingering in the back of his head.  
Ah, maybe he was still dreaming.  
Love, but yes, love... somewhere it could have been...  
He was just giving up hope, through the years and the disappointments.  
He munched slowly, absorbing the cream with the bread, and stayed at the table, looking out of the window on the garden until Lovino arrived, smiling and almost dancing.  
"Francis? - he blinked - So early?"  
"...I am not as lazy as you think.", Francis mumbled, smoking another cigarette, faking a smirk.  
"You are less of a morning person than Emma and she bites my hand when I try to wake her up before midday."  
"Be kinder to big brother..."  
Lovino sniffed, curious, "Did you cook?"  
"I was hungry."  
A smile, "Well, I am glad, I didn't see you eating anything since two days."  
"I had a really bad stomachache..."  
"...yeah, one called Michelle. I am kinda glad, I admit, you two broke up."  
"Well. - Francis chuckled - She made sure to tell me exactly what an horrible person I am."  
"She really understimates your self-awareness."  
"That's what I told her. - he breathed in the smoke again - But I was getting so annoyed and tired of waiting to feel... more."  
Lovino shook his head, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, while taking off his jacket and hanging it on the chair he sat on.  
"Again?"  
Francis sighed, nodding, his shoulders softening, "I'm a disappointed dreamer, what more could I say?"  
"You are just stubborn and disillusioned.", Lovino stole his bottle of wine and drank from it a hugely long sip.  
Francis scratched his neck, embarassed. Probably Lovino was tired of all his long discussions about true love and wishful thinking, especially since the only result to his vain efforts was one break up after the other.  
Nothing dramatic, obviously: most of times it was a simple separation after a short flirt, sometimes some tears or a dish thrown at the wall. One time he had his car scratched with the keys, but, well, Lovino was Lovino, after all.  
"I learnt my lesson, okay? - he smiled - I won't make the same mistake again."  
"Pft, if I had a cent for every time I heard that sentence.", Lovino almost laughed in Francis' face and went to his office.  
Francis pouted and mumbled a curse word.  
...yet, he was serious.  
Love never seemed so far away and unreachable.  
Giving up the idea of it completely, though, to him was impossible: it would have been like giving up his own self, his structure, his bones. It just seemed... like a dream.  
Or like a fish, moving quickly, under the dark waters of a solitary night.  
Lovino opened the door of the office again, hissed, menacingly, "Do you remember today we have the interviews for the new waiter?"  
"Do we have to?"  
"I am not going to divide again between the pasta station and the fucking tables. God made me beautiful but he forgot the gift of ubiquity."  
"But..."  
"And you won't either. You'd keep flirting with the clients."  
"It's part of my charm."  
"It's part of you bullshit. - Lovino cut it off - Now, prepare psychologically, in one hour they arrive and I left my patience at home."  
"...did you have one in first place?", he muttered bitterly to himself.

* * *

  
"So... - Lovino looked at his papers, crossing his legs and sighing deeply - ...this is going to be like the battle of Thermopylae. Just more violent."  
"Don't scare the kids... - Francis faked a smile and then waved at the poor five guys in front of them - Our sous-chef, mister Vargas, has just a very dry sense of humor."  
"Never as dry as my soul."  
"Lovi, please. - he coughed - I am Francis, the chef. - a tender smile, he put part of his curls behind the ear - Today we would like to chose a waiter: do any of you have any experience in a restaurant?"  
Silence.  
"...in a kitchen of any kind?"  
Dead silence.  
"...even in the house one?"  
Black plauge dead silence.  
Francis sighed dramatically, "I see.."  
Lovino glared and whispered, "This is going to be worse that I imagined. And you know how I feel about optimism."  
A tall blond guy snickered in the background.  
France glanced at him, curious. He eyed him from the ruffled honey mane to the electric blue snickers. Cerulean blue eyes, bright smile, a tanned skin... an aura of energy and purity.  
Lovino glared, "Francis? Are you with us?"  
"Ah... - he got embarassed, coughed and smiled softly - Oh but obviously, I was just struck by the beauty of youth in these blossoming young men."  
"...I never thought you could have said or done something gayer than when you sang I will survive at my bachelor party."  
The guy laughed again from the background.  
Francis smiled, "I'll go pretending to be the client at the table, Lovino will give you all instructions. - he waved with two fingers - Good luck."  
Of the five boys, three never arrived at the dining zone: they broke dishes, cursed too loudly, said some blasphemy that awakened the satanic nature sleeping inside Lovino. In the end, after a solid quarter hour, a small little boy popped up from the kitchen and tried to take his fake order, just to panic, which got worse as Francis smiled, spoke calmly and gently, because then the boy felt so pathetic he cried and muttered something about never leaving his room again.  
When the boy with honey hair and eyes like the azure sky smiled at him from the kitchen door, Francis felt genuinely happy, with some innocent feeling of joy he didn't remember since elementary school.  
He came close, showed the brightest smile Francis ever had the chance to see and claimed, enthusiastically, "I am Alfred, your waiter, how can I help you?"  
Francis cheered up, putting his hands together, "Really good! Alfred, right, let's say I am deadly allergic to nuts or gluten."  
Alfred scratched his ear, "I'd ask the chef which dishes contain nuts and I am sure the kitchen divides the tools to be sure avoiding contamination."  
Francis seemed satisfied, "Mh... if a client is indecisive about the dish, what could you ask?"  
"Propose them some dishes based on the ingredients they might like?", he said, tentively.  
"If I ask shamelessly for a discount?"  
"A gentle laugh, to make them think I took it for a joke.", Alfred smirked, determined, seeing the interview was going greatly.  
Francis smiled back and shouted at Lovino, "This one is good."  
Lovino came out from the kitchen and looked at the both of them, still looking at each other, exchanging and shy yet confident glances. He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.  
"Okay, fiat lux, but he's in trial until the next week."  
With satisfaction on his face, the chef stood up and shook Alfred's hand, "Congratulations."  
"Thank you..."  
"I am aware being a waiter is surely not your life ambition, but you really have a certain charisma for it."  
Alfred laughed, "Ah, call it professional bias."  
"You are a student, right? Of?"  
"I'm going to become an actor. - Alfred said, proudly - I need some money for my studies at the academy."  
Francis' smile disappeared, buried at the bottom of his stomach. A serious face took its place and, soon, a much deeper and more honest feeling of empathy rose.  
"Magnificent. - he whispered, caressing his hair, pulling them again behind his ears, in an almost shy and careful gesture - Passion, you know... I think there is nothing more meaningful."  
Alfred looked at him, focused.  
The word 'passion' echoed through his mind.  
He often found it so cheesy and easy to say, but in Francis' mouth, between his lips, it seemed felt. Truly felt.  
And something moved in his stomach.  
Like seasickness. Sort of.  
Francis didn't seem affected, though, he just shook their hands, told him to return the day after for the contract and went to work on some new dessert.  
Alfred was left with the aftertaste of dawn.

* * *

  
He returned home for a couple of hours in the afternoon, speaking to himself on the road about mint and ginger. He hummed and whistled, walking slowly, between the streets. Like a swing or a gentle breeze, he let himself being moved by the smells, the colours, the lights.  
The sound of his own steps, the chatter of the people, the dinstant violins in the background of the boulevards, every sound seemed to accompain his walk home.  
When he opened the door, Meringue meowed, came to the door, liked his hands and asked for some cuddles Francis really couldn't refuse him.  
The kitten purred softly again Francis' arm as the chef layed on the sofa, like a tired boat at the end of the sea.  
He started working at Les Nymphéas five years before. His uncle, a proud italian  playboy, retired to disappear - or, in his words, travel through the world without sending letters - and asked him, just graduated from the cuisine academy, to help his two grandsons, Lovino and Felice, in managing the restaurant.  
The youngest was just as tender as humanly possible, but the oldest one was short-tempered and irascible; the collaboration was not always easy, even if since Antonio started working with them everything became easier. Antonio has his own way with children since always.  
Francis wondered if he had that: a talent for people.  
It was something he had been said often, "you're good with people", "you're so charming", but most of the time he felt like a complete failure. He could flirt, sure, he was also quite confident in his bed abilities, but, then again, that was just... dust.  
Where was the gold?  
He arrived at that point in his life when being alone in a room at night was like darkness lingering and creeping on his chest.  
His mother used to sing to him a lot, at night, about love, about everything can change when you live with love into your heart.  
But, in the end, he searched so much without finding anything.  
Maybe, he thought, maybe cooking for all his life was his gesture of true love to the world.  
The mobile rang and the cat hissed at it furiously.  
"Sh, sh, all is fine... hello?"  
"Francis?"  
"Monique? - he smiled, hearing his little sister voice was always calming for some reason - How are you, small bird?"  
"All fine... - she smiled too, caressing the paperwork - I am still in the office and... I wanted to know how you are."  
"Very proud of my little sister who got an amazing job as fashion designer."  
"Mh... the little sister might be missing living close to her family."  
"Oh, it's part of the deal, Moni. - his voice was mellow and soft - You give up something for something else that is worth the pain."  
"That sounds so sad..."  
"Where is your french spirit for melanchony?"  
"You absorbed all of it from mom in the womb saving me from it."  
Francis laughed.  
"How is work doing?"  
"Fine. We just hired a new waiter. I am thinking about a new dessert."  
"Chocolate?"  
"You know I love it."  
"I know mom loved it."  
Francis laughed again, harder, bitterly, "Touché."  
Monique shook her head, "Please, go to visit her also for me, okay?"  
"I will."  
"Please."  
Francis felt a long, cold, shiver and nodded nervously, scratched the back fo his neck and changed topic non-chalantly, "Will you return for Easter?"  
"Sure... sure, sure."  
"I will cook you something nice."  
"...only the two of us?"  
"Naturally."  
A sigh. She twirled the long hair around her finger.  
"I will go home now, okay? You are going to work right now?"  
"Mh. - a smile - I will finish a chocolate cake and name it Monique in your honor."  
She giggled happily, "Then make sure to draw some card suits on them, you know I love them..."  
"What about hearts?"  
"No, you have always been the one lucky in love."  
A low chuckle.  
"We will see about that. Have to go now. Love you."  
  



	2. 2

**#2**  
  
Francis still remembered that afternoon: he was looking at his own hands, in first grade, and staring at the fingerprints and their small, irregular curves.  
He was looking at them, while his mother was driving him home from school, still dazed.  
"Did you know everybody has them different, mommy?"  
"Really? - she faked surprise, smiling - So everybody is unique, right?"  
"Yes! This means there is only one Francis in the world."  
"Didn't you know already?"  
"There is another Francis in my class..."  
"Well... - she looked at the streetlight, glaring at them in red - I don't know anybody like you, baby. You are you because of what you have inside, not a name."  
Francis smiled, "Really?"  
"Yes. - she laughed gently - And you will show to the world how special you are."  
"How?"  
"With what you love."  
Francis blinked, "Love like in the fairytales? True love?"  
"There are two types of true love, Fran. - the mom started the car again, seeing the green light in front of them - Between people or of a person towards something that makes them happy."  
"Like mommy and singing?"  
"You're smart like your daddy."  
"I don't like dad.", Francis pouted, looking out of the window.  
His mother sighed, "Baby, one day you'll understand him."  
That day never came.  
His relationship with the old man just got worse after Monique's birth, when his mother gave up her singing career completely and started working as a secretary in order to maintain two children without help.  
Francis, though, never felt like he was missing a part or so.  
He was grateful for all the things he learnt from his mother, whether they were big things like the concept of freedom or small ones like how to take care of his hair; and what he couldn't learn from her, he learnt by himself, just like cooking.  
He loved his mother, he loved his sister - he saw in them something so delicate and strong, like if the structures of flowers and crystals were the same.  
And as his mother passed away, Francis couldn't remember a day he got angry at her, not even as a phase of the mourning.   
All he could remember of the first three months of the grieving was cooking a chocolate cake every night and then throwing it away in the dustbin, letting the brown walls and the soft cream stain the plastic bag like a waterfall.  
He would then sit in the penumbra of the kitchen, smoking a whole packet of cigarettes, mixing two bitter smells to delete the lingering memory of one.  
Her smile was still there, behind the melted chocolate splatter in the background.  
Her smile was still there, rotting somewhere between his shivering ribs.  
Her smile was still there, buried so deep under the ground of the house that plants bloomed from her lost voice and, like climbing ivy, entered inside him.  
"You still plant seeds of sadness wherever you were..."  
Francis layed on the cold floor, a cigarette still in his face, some ashes fell on his cheek but he barely felt it, letting his lungs empty and then fill with white smoke.  
He remembered her smile, her constant, absolutely unreliable for understanding her mood, smile.  
"Il neige, il neige sur Liège, que le fleuve transporte sans bruit... Ce soir, ce soir il neige sur mes rêves et sur Liège que le fleuve transperce sans bruit..."  
He sang slowly, darkly. His tongue rolled the consonants and melted the vowels.  
"... sans bruit."  
He felt her again: over him, staring with a kind look, asking what was wrong. Her arms laying on her womb, her knees bent, her head tilted gracefully.  
She would have kissed his forehead, smelled the scent of the cake and asked for a slice, twirled, sang a song while pouring tea in the cups.  
She would have made everything warm.  
But she was not there.  
And the love she taught him about was the only thing he still had.  
He was left remembering that: the back of her head, her crystalline voice,  that sense of passion and that something, something out there, exactly like somebody, would have gave sense to everything and made their souls shine.  
No need for fingerprints...  
Just their own soul and love.  
That’s what his mother left him, before leaving forever, years after, on a sad day with snow freezing over pavements, with Jacques Brel in her cd player, she fell asleep on the sofa, with Meringue over her legs, silent, tranquil, as he knew, as he knew since days.  
After the fourth month, he stopped throwing the cakes away - he gave them to the neighbourhood children instead. With time, he made less and less, until he regained control over himself and started sleeping again at night.  
He stopped controlling if there were letters for his mom in the mailbox, he stopped looking for the salmon she liked in the supermarket, he stopped wondering which book to give her for Christmas. He started realizing that she was really gone.  
But that day never went left his memory: that laugh and that "with what you love".

* * *

  
The dawn descended slowly, puking pink and periwinkle over the Seine and shining lazyly on the roofs of the mansions around it.   
Francis was wandering those streets, unable to sleep. He started dreaming about his mother and the thought never ceased to follow him around, quietly and coldly.  
His footsteps produced small clinkes and clunkes, making pigeons escape and kittens get closer - he walked down the streets, letting his glance linger on lanky lamplights and the fat drinking fountains. The sun shone cheerfully, bringing out the heavy forest green from the dustenest bronze statues.  
It was windy and fresh, though.  
And Francis couldn't help but wanting to cook something he didn't prepare in a long, long time.  
He tied up his hair in a ponytail, bit his lips slightly while focusing on a mental list of all the needed ingredients. He cracked his knuckles and said to himself, "let's do it".  
"Clinging to left overs of your scent, I am left undone... - he sang to himself -  Come home soon, my dear..."  
He had a good sensation running through his bones, like a gentle yet feverish sparkle. The bitter scent of chocolate, the soft curve of the cream and the warmth of the butter let his mind sway between waves of old sweet memories.  
A small tapping behind him and Francis turned.  
He smiled; the new waiter was there, standing, with big eyes, a pink chewing gum baloon, and loud music from the headphones.  
Francis waved at him and the boy replied, vaguely embarassed, turning off the mp3 player.  
"Hey..."  
"Hey... - Francis' smile grew wider and softer - Alfred, right?"  
A quick nod, then the american boy sniffed, wrinkling his nose, "Chocolate?"  
"Yes, would you care to join me?"  
"In cooking? Nah. I'd probably burn down the kitchen. - he laughed nervously - But I'm all up for tasting."  
Francis kept mixing the melting chocolate and looking at the cake in the oven, while listening, "Let me guess, a true single twenty year old?"  
"Well...  you know, things that require care and patience are not exactly my forte."  
"You do seem more like the hurrican type of person."  
"Huh?"  
"Veni, vidi, vici. Came, saw, conquered. - Francis laughed - A diamond in the rough with rough ways."  
Alfred smiled, enigmatically, "Sounds good."  
The boy started playing with a couple of fruits laid over the small table in the kitchen, making them roll and bouncing them from hand to hand.  
"Do you survive off pizza?"  
"Instant noodles and mcdonalds, mainly."  
The chef squinted his eyes.  
"I imagine to you this sounds like blasphemy."  
Francis shook his head, "...a bit... barbaric. But I also had chores I tendencially avoided like they were the black plague at your age, so..."  
"How did you start it?"  
"Doing chores?"  
"Cooking.", Alfred smiled.   
His teeth were straight and white. He probably never smoked and was always the kid that cleaned them obidiently.  
Somehow, Francis felt an empty hole in his stomach.  
He moved the chocolate from the bain-marie and stared at the cake that was baking in the oven. He removed the cream in which he mixed some honey and vanilla seeds from the fire.  
"My mom was often late for dinner and she never really enjoyed cooking."  
"So it all started from necessity."  
"You could say I made a virtue out of it."  
Alfred laughed, came close to the melted chocolate and, dipping a finger into it, with a small surprised gasp, he caught some of it on his fingertip and licked it. Naively.  
He looked like a child trapped in an adult body, like in a stupid 90s comedy.  
"How did you decide to become an actor?"  
Alfred's eyes sparkled. He seemed close to saying something, then, contemplating it more, he lowered his eyes - letting the words linger in the mute gesture of his mouth agape and his mind white.   
He lowered his voice slightly, words coming out hoarse and dry.   
A forced laugh cracked from the dark icy surface of his smile, "Always loved to. Guess it's a family thing."  
Francis didn't go any further.  
He took out the cake from the oven to let it rest.  
"I don't like that look."  
"Which one?"  
"The one you are giving me."  
Francis backed off slightly, not sure what Alfred meant. He didn't think to be staring at the boy in any particular way, but the mixture of tenderness and worry had been rising on his face during the conversation without the french man noticing.  
"I am sorry..."  
Alfred seemed aggravated by the apology, his pitched turned annoyed and bitter, "It's so patronizing."  
"I didn't mean it. - Francis granted, perplexed, but trying to light up - I am afraid, being a big brother, it comes with the set."  
"Do you have a younger brother?"  
"Sister. Monique."  
"...does she resemble your mother?"  
"Awfully a lot. - he commented with a metallic laugh, which Alfred couldn't decode - She always has, in many ways."  
Alfred stared at him, curious, doutbful like a wild animal.  
"Who do you look like then?"  
"Nobody."  
The american boy's eyes seemed to become a bit brighter, but coldly. He stole some of the whipped cream with a finger and mumbled, "Understood..."  
"And you?"  
"Mh... I’m adopted so I don't really know."  
"Oh. Oh, I am sorry." , Francis whispered, mortified.  
"Nah, it's okay. - Alfred laughed - I don't care about the past, I’m a future type of person."  
Francis smiled, poured the whipped cream over the chocolate and mixed with the whip, until it became perfectly omogenous.  
"What are you gonna do with that?"  
"Put it over and inside the chocolate cake."  
"Is it a new recipe?"  
"Are you curious?"  
"Kinda hungry."  
Francis chuckled, "This is not a creation of mine. It's more like a very unorthodox version, a vague memory."  
Alfred stared at the chef, while he was finishing preparing their breakfast.  
"How come you arrived so early?"  
"Lovino told me to be here for eleven because we will have to prepare for a celebration."  
"A wedding. - Francis corrected him, with a dreamy smile - A wedding."  
"...okay, by the way, so that's how it is."  
"Allow me to say, it's anyway eight thirty."  
"I was kinda nervous, okay?"  
"Stage fright?", Francis smirked, naughtly.  
Alfred pouted, embarrassed, "Well, I could ask you the same."  
"I couldn't sleep well."  
"How come: bad dreams?"  
"I wouldn't say bad. - Francis smiled gently - Just... persistent."  
"Maybe it has a meaning!", Alfred claimed.  
"A meaning? Like psychiatrically, you mean?"  
"Or a ghost wants to communicate with you!"  
"... I think we can rule that out."  
Alfred laughed, "Or maybe you want to communicate with it."  
Francis didn't reply, but slowed down filling the cake with the ganache. He made a sketchy yet graceful decoration with small roses of ganache and put the sweet over the table.  
Alfred attacked it with a fork, directly, carelessly.  
As he put the bite into his mouth, though, he regretted how fast he had been. He sat down and kept the cake over his tongue, insistently, stubbornly, trying to preserve that taste as long as possible.  
Sweet.   
A pure sweetness: not made of overlysugared and extramilkish chocolate, but the honey married the almost bitter chocolate and their mixture didn't have taste of any harshness.  No tart aftertaste.  
It was a dark sweetness.  
To him, very used to extreme tastes, it was like meeting a stranger.  
Softly, the moist cake melted on his tongue, then drowing into his throat, reaching the stomach - and the heart, where it rested.  
"Is it good?", Francis asked, curious, sitting and cutting himself a slice.  
"...yes."  
Alfred stared at the cake, then took a slice too.  
"You don't have to eat slowly, then."  
"When did you eat it?"  
"Mh?"  
"You said it's a memory."  
Francis smiled, starting to eat his piece from the rose decoration. He untied his ponytail, while savouring the cream.  
"I ate it just once, when I was ten, at a birthday. It was the favourite cake of the girl... but it never comes out like that one... it's never intense enough."  
Alfred started eating faster, even if now bringing an uncertain respect to the dessert.  
"Did you ever think about returning to the house and asking for the recipe?"  
"The mother of the girl died, so... well, then I tried to bake it myself for her sometimes. And she liked it, she said, but I am sure it was like watching the photograph of your favourite painting. It's tender, but leaves you unsatisfied."  
"Maybe it's not the same cake, but this is great, okay? - Alfred stated, not accepting objections - This cake is like... well, whoa."  
Francis laughed, genuinely happy.  
"Thank you."  
"No. - Alfred smiled - Thank you to you for the breakfast."  
Francis ate a bit more, then smiled again, "You know, usually we can take home food, maybe I could give you some of this cake. I live alone, finishing it whole would be impossible."  
"Sure!"  
Francis chuckled and went to the sink, "Well, I'll clean the dishes in the meantime, so when the others arrive there is not extrawork."  
"Can I ask you something, Francis?"  
"But yes, naturally."  
"...do you really like weddings or something? Or is it a soft spot french people have?"  
Francis laughed again, "I would say us french have a soft spot on love, not marriage. - he winked and Alfred grew flustered - I just... find it romantic, you know. It's this big gesture of theatrical proportions in which you confess to the world you love him and..."  
"...him?"  
"What."  
"Him. You said 'him'."  
Francis scratched his nape, "Oh, well, is it a problem?"  
"No. No, I mean... - Alfred coughed and stuffed his mouth with cake to avoid the gazes he felt on his face - I just didn't know, that's all."  
Better said, he suspected, but was not sure. And he was not used to people saying it lightly.  
Not in his family, at least.  
Francis smiled kindly and returned to clean.  
"To me, male of female is of no importance. It's all about who, the emotion and the soul."  
"Pft... you sound so old when you speak with that wise tone."  
"Don't you agree?"  
Alfred lowered his eyes. Sure he agreed, but... he never really met somebody he loved or, rather, that provoked any sort of strong emotion in him, excluded anger or resentment.  
The feeling Francis was speaking about must had been a shining, intense, happiness.  
And Alfred never thought that could come by anybody else than himself.  
"I suppose so."  
"Don't you have a girlfriend?"  
Alfred scoffed, "I’m a free spirit."  
"I see...", Francis whistled to himself, making the water come out warmer.  
Alfred ate another bit of the cake, munching slowly, staring at Francis' back: a big, nice, slender back.   
He wondered if the scent of Francis' skin ever ends up mixed with the one of the food. He wondered how deeply the food touched him and how on the surface that would have been visible.  
"Once I tried to make cookies, you know?"  
"Really?", Francis chuckled at the idea.  
Alfred shook his head and laughed a bit, "I put salt instead of sugar."  
Francis laughed too and, rising an eyebrow a bit, smirking, asked, "How old were you?"  
"I was eight. Father's day."  
"That's extremely cute, somehow."  
"What do you mean 'somehow'?", Alfred joked.  
Francis looked at the cake and smiled more.  
"You know... in that cake there is salt too... just a bit. A pinch. It brings out the taste of chocolate."  
Alfred blinked, uncertain, hit somewhere in between his chest, "Why are you telling me this, exactly?", he asked, trying to pull it off fine in an apparently uninterested tone.  
"Mh... well, because no mistake is absolute. The same thing that can ruin a recipe can make one better. - Francis whistled again, singing over an old French song - So, I guess, everything is relative. "  
"Are you trying to tell me that I am not an hopeless case with cooking?"  
"Well... maybe you won't be a chef, but you could learn to make cookies."  
Alfred was about to reply, when Lovino entered in the room, shouting and blabbering something so quickly and with such an awful accent that even Francis seemed to have problems to translate what he was complaining about.  
"Lovi, are you fine?"  
"Do I look like I am fine, honestly, Francis, honestly?"  
"Well, you never look fine, so..."  
"I hope you get fucked in the butt by a cactus inhabited by a family of hedgehogs."  
"Lucky me. - Francis started drying the used pans, without seeming too concerned about Lovino's ... colourful greeting - What's the problem?"  
"We have twenty people more at today's celebration."  
Francis got suddenly pale, like he was fighting back a heart attack.  
"Twenty?"  
"And, unless you developed the power to multiply fish overnight, I am afraid you will have to join me in the desperate search of more Shi drums. - Lovino stared at Alfred, silent for a second - Jones, control the kitchen until we come back, clear?"  
This said he made a quick gesture by tilting his head in the direction of the door and Francis took away his white jacket and followed him out of the door, quite nervously.  
As the door closed behind them, Alfred felt weirdly relieved and empty at the same time.  
Like a room full of light but no furniture for it to shine on.  
And the windows were firmly closed.  
He decided to finish drying the pans, just to have something to do.  
"Ah, I forgot. - Francis opened the door quickly, smiling - If you put your head into something, you can do it, no matter how hard it is."  
He closed the door again.  
And Alfred stared at it for the longest time, with an involuntary smile.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Finding the name of the Umbrina cirrosa in English has been uselessly hard for no reason at all *V*" Yahoo. On other news, this is the cake Francis made: http://www.finecooking.com/recipes/chocolate-honey-ganache-layer-cake.aspx . Have a try! Thank you to my soulmate that helped me with grammar mistakes!


	3. 3

#3  
  
The time on the clock fluttered broken and tired.  
The room was covered in heat, creeping on the walls, with the scent of unfinished meals and resting herbs.   
Francis was trying to finish the last touches of the soup with crème fraîche  and basil, while his look kept being mislead and running around, beyond corners and bowls, trying to catch a glimps of him.  
Lovino, next to him, was mixing the fish and zucchini sauce gently, without taking off his eyes from it.  
"Searching for the american boy?"  
"Don't like his baggy jeans, but I might like what's underneath them. - Francis half-hummed, then showing a sarcastic look to the friend - I am not into children."  
"Yet."  
"Oh, c'mon, Lovi, you know you are the only one for me."  
"I am a married man. - he warned him - Get your flirty ass to work."  
Francis laughed.  
"Do you think Emma would fancy a threesome?", he said, jokingly.  
Lovino glared at him, "Look, that guy is not like all of your other pretty girls and pretty boys, you have to be nice with this one: you can't just go and break his heart."  
"...I ... well, believe it or not, if I would, - he stuttered, embarrassed - Well, which doesn't mean I would, because I am not considering doing it, but if I would... I wouldn't... you know, break his heart... I see that he is... sensitive and..."  
"Don't give me that crap. - he cut it off - I don't care if he has the soul of a swan: he works here and we manage not to pay him an obscene amount. Don't screw it."  
Francis nodded to himself, crumbling some basil over the soup and then giving it on the counter next to them for the waiter to pick.  
"Table eleven."  
Lovino stirred the pasta with the sauce , letting it grasp more flavour, and then put it in a dish next to Francis'.  
"Table eleven. - he repeated, then put his eyes on Francis, threatening and warning - Don't fuck the american boy."  
"Got it, got it."  
"Who is not going to fuck who? - asked Emma, taking the dishes - Oh, honey, stop limiting Francis, you know he is a free spirit."  
"Oh, my darling, you do understand me!"  
"Darling my arse. - Lovino looked grumpy at his wife - And don't justify him."  
Emma kissed him on the cheek quickly and exited from the kitchen.  
"Don't fight!"  
Francis smiled looking at her. Emma started working there not much after him and Lovino had, emh... that accident with the keys, she came from Belgium to perfectionate her French and started working part-time to get rid of the overkill that a rent in Paris can be. It didn't take much for Lovino to fall for her, like a mature pear falls from the tree and reached the earth with a dull thud.  
She always took out the best of him: the embarrassed smiles and the tender care, full of attention, gestures and sweetness.   
She took out what best people could usually only see behind his abrupt yet somehow fatherly surly attitude.  
And Francis liked that...  but he was never able to do the same.  
Alfred chimed in, "The bride asked if we can start bringing the main dish in ten minutes."  
Francis shook his head, "Mh, no, the side dish is still not ready. Buy time, speak with the band, make them dance a bit."  
"Are we kinda slow or is this my hamster-sized attention span showing?"  
The chef chuckled, trying to stop himself from laughing, then sighed a bit, with a smile, "No, it's just we need help. Lovino's brother is looking at the fish and I will have to prepare the meat, so..."  
"Can I help with something? I mean, except asking the band to remember the most embarassing and catchy songs from the 90s."  
"...can you prepare a mirepoix?"  
"If I had the slightest idea what it is, I could deny more firmly."  
"The kitchen cook is helping Lovino with the seafood. I need you to cut onions, carrots, celery, leek and garlic in small bits."  
Alfred squinted his eyes, "I think I can do that... which is sorta suspicious."  
Francis gave him a knife and pointed the vegetables at him, "I'm counting on you."  
"Now, on the list of things that are not good ideas..."  
Alfred started cutting the vegetables, going slowly, trying to be precise, but then giving up and speeding the process, throwing into it some energy he didn't know he was keeping in.  
"Argh. - he hissed - Do onions have to kill your eyes?"  
"Want to know the secret not to cry?", Francis mumbled, while finishing the other soups and decorating them with herbs.  
"Sure."  
"Don't form an emotional bond."  
Alfred glared at him, "...tell me you didn't."  
"I did.", Francis laughed, shyly.  
The waiter smiled, "I hope that's not how you seduce your prey."  
"No, no, the puns are reserved to when I want them to break up with me."  
"That's better."  
Alfred was still smiling and Francis felt somehting, like a chord, in his heart, getting tenser and tenser. It was like a sting and, then, hurtful - he felt like it was going to be ripped apart.  
"I usually, you know, invite them to dinner, go for a romantic walk, speak under the stars, a glass of wine, red one, and a small chat in my apartment."  
"So French I feel the letters disappearing from my words."  
"I know, I... - Francis sighed - I guess, I go for the classic way. It's more romantic."  
"Kinda of impersonal type of romanticism, if you ask me, but yeah, I'm not a playboy."  
"Well, I wouldn't define myself a playboy either...", Francis felt defensive.  
Alfred snorted a bit, "You seem like that?"  
"I don't... I don't play.", his voice cracked, offended.  
The string hurt more.  
Alfred seemed confused, "I... - he gave him the bowl where he put the cut veggies - I have to return in the hall."  
Francis nodded.  
Lovino lifted his eyebrows, without commenting nor turning towards them.  
"Start making the meat."  
"In the end, we didn't need extra fish."  
"Well, you never know what you need until you're without it and somebody asks you for it."  
  


* * *

  
  
An embarassed man, midthirties and already baldness was more than just a threat, small and shining black eyes, tender smile, came next to the band, a glass in his hands. The other one held safely the microphone.  
"Hey! I mean... - he laughed nervously - ... very formal hey."  
The crowded turned.  
"I am sorry to interrupt you from all the food, by the way, it's delicious, but I heard that a toast was in the unwritten contract as the bestman."  
Alfred sighed, leaning on the column, curious about the embarassing yet ritual speech filled with terrible anedctoted and surely too many better-not-have-been-told jokes.   
"I met Jean and Marie at the University, many many years ago, when I still had hair, and I remember what I thought, what we all thought: these two are so boring. - somebody laughed a bit too hard - These two are so boringly happy. Boringly happy since those fifteen years ago and they will be boringly happy for the next fifteen and the fifteen after those. - the man smiled - And somehow, to me, that seems so great and weird. I am a man of fast cars, action movies and who forgets girls' names easily. But Jean and Marie are those weird people who seems to have found all of it: they don't need a Ferrari and they don't even need to be a famous writer and a beautiful model, no offense, Marie, you know I love your nose. - the bride stuck her tongue out a bit - And I can't understand how it works for them, but it works, and they are happy, damn happy. - he raised the glass full of wine - And that's more than I can say for myself, so... a toast to Jean and Marie and the next fifteen years of sure boring smiles."  
The groom came to hug the friend and called for another serving on wine.  
A  woman in his same waiter uniform came next to him , smiling, her full lips with a feline curve.  
"Do you like toasts?"  
"Not really.", Alfred replied without thinking.  
"I am not the type either. Some people really like them, guess it's something about putting feeling into words and letting them shine. - she smiled - I, for myself, am not good with words, that's why I married somebody who is easy to read, I suppose."  
"Lovino's wife, right?"  
Emma nodded.  
"I am not good with words either. - he smiled, laughed a bit, unwillingly - Maybe I'd like to borrow them."  
"Then you have to marry a writer."  
"Perhaps."  
But the truth was he hated words.  
If he could have, he would have stopped speaking. He tried, for a brief period, when he was five, but then he figured out that people not only stopped listening to him, but also to expect him to even want to say anything.   
He figured out he would have been invisible. And that was the only thing he couldn't have bear to be.  
So he decided to speak.  
Speak a lot, speak loud. Tell lies, make jokes, be spectacural.  
Eat the air, devour the silence, fill it with Alfred F. Jones until everyone would have seen he existed.  
Be there, be everywhere and the center of everything.  
The mother of the bride also started a toast, Emma went to take away the dishes and organize for the dessert, Alfred was staring at the white wedding dress.   
"Are you mentally stuck in the 80s, you look like a meringue...", he muttered, half-hissing.  
Francis chuckled from behind, making him startle.  
"I think she went more for one of your disney princesses."  
"The captain is abandoning the ship?"  
Francis shook his head, "The only remaining things are the desserts, which are ready, and the cake. - he smiled - I'm heading outside for a well-earned cigarette, care to join me?"  
"I don't smoke."  
"I didn't have any doubt."  
"Then why?"  
"Because I enjoy your company.", he said, simply and honestly.  
He gave then a knowingly look and Alfred felt caught redhanded and coughed out of embarrassment.   
Francis just smiled, closed his eyes and claimed, "I am not enough masochist or generous to spend part of my time with people I don't find pleasant."  
They opened a small backdoor, giving on the garden. Francis sat on a stone step and, lighting up a cigarette, smiled again at the boy.  
"So, other critics to the bride?"  
"Nah, I mean... I am not the romantic type, I suppose. This whole thing of the wedding seems... cheesy."  
"Cheesy?"  
"Overly sentimental."  
Francis frowned, "What does cheese has to do with emotions?"  
Alfred puffed, smiling a bit, "I know you like them..."  
"I do. - Francis laughed, sadly, biting the corner of his lips - But probably I am not cut for it either."  
"I am sorry I said you play. I don't think so."  
The chef turned to him, smiled again, breathed in some smoke and scratched his stubble.   
"It's fine, I suppose it might seem so..."  
"No, I... look, you are the guy who remembers the chocolate cake of the granny he ate once, you must be a fucking romantic, but... I don't know, this going out with many people seems not. But it's not my businness. And I know I don't know shit, okay?"  
Francis laughed a bit, blushing slightly, "You don't have to ask sorry... really."  
Alfred seemed nervous, "I just don't get it. - he shrugged his shoulders, a bit too quickly to seem natural - ... but I didn't want to offend you."  
"I know."  
"What do you mean?"  
"You seem rather harmless."  
"...is this supposed to be a compliment?", he asked, squinting his eyes in suspicion.  
Francis nodded, "Pretty much."  
He breathed in more, looking at the dark sky over them. Everything seemed to be filled by the music of the crickets and the dark gown of the night, dancing slowly.  
Alfred stared a bit at the man: the nice, firm chin, with the small stubble, then the neck, long, manly, a big Adam's apple - then his look flooded, embracing the whole figure, and then again, collected and focused on the hands: slightly covered in light blond hairs, in shape gentle and long, bony, with the fingers good for playing piano and the knuckles and veins prominent.   
He imagined his touch, how it would have felt.  
How would have it been being like a piece of chocolate or a spoon of cream under his fingers?  
Would he have showed him care?  
Francis led the cigarette to his lips and sucked slowly.  
Alfred started scratching the back of his neck nervously, rubbing his nape and the hair. He wasn't sure if he really offended Francis or not; the chef seemed so relaxed, but he was used to people saying everything was fine and then guilt-tripping him until a mental breakdown.   
At the same time, a weird sensation was rising inside his veins.   
He felt slighlty drunk, childish - fragile but the limbs stiff and hard.  
He couldn't stop looking at those hands, at the veins, getting bigger as Francis changed position while holding the cigarette, at the lips, so full for a man.   
Alfred bit the corner of his mouth, suffocating a small grunt. A subtle, strong desire.  
Those lips, those hands, that...  
"How was work today?", Francis asked, curious and kind.  
"Ah. Ah, well! - Alfred bursted, embarrassed by his own thoughts - Seeing you working today, I understood you are really a great cock."  
"What."  
Alfred prayed God to kill him in that instant.  
"I- I meant cook! Cook, cooking, you cook, you're a cook! Chef. That. Not cock, I mean, sure, you have a cock, I don't mean your cock doens't exist, I bet it's also great. No, wait, that's not what I meant! You understood. Oh my god, please, tell me you understood."  
Francis stared at the boy in silence for a couple of seconds before exploding in the loudest laugh Alfred witnessed since years. He started holding his stomach and half-cried, while covering his face with the other hand. He even snorted, for a second.  
But, god, he was... handsome.  
How can somebody be handsome while snorting? Is it scientifically possible?  
Alfred couldn't even get angry for been laughed in the face.  
It was the worst Freudian slip he ever had and, at the same time, the most honest one, probably.  
"It's fine, it's fine. - Francis said, between some small bites of histerical laughing - I understood."  
Alfred felt the stupidest creature on earth.  
Francis stood up, finished his cigarette and threw it on the wet ground. He came closer to the boy and his smile grew wider. Alfred felt swallowed.  
He gulped slightly, waiting for a moment, waiting for something.  He stared at Francis's lips, which he licked, slowly - way too slowly, with his big tongue. He smiled again, giving a dry soundless chuckle right after.  
The chef ruffled his hair.  
"Let's go in, it's getting chilly."  
Alfred would have really dared to disagree.  
  


* * *

  
  
Francis threw the water over his face. He panted and grumbled, then sighed, heavily.  
As soon as they returned in, he went on the sink of the toilet and tried to calm down.  
"Are you okay, Fran?", Feliciano asked, worried.  
"I'm fine... do we have ice in the freezer?"  
"...for what?"  
" _Per metterselo sulle palle_. - explained Lovino coming from behind - You don't need ice. You need to buy yourself a conscience or to think about how much I will give you hell if you fuck up again a contract."  
Feliciano looked at both of them confused, then shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.  
Francis sighed again, "How is it going there?"  
Lovino cleaned his hands with a towel, "We finished. They are eating cake and dancing to music I thought was buried into the depth of oblivion of the musical industry, but, as usual, I was being too optimistic and I've been punished."  
Feliciano jumped on the brother's back, "So we can eat the surplus now?"  
"It's early."  
"It's late! - he complained, whining - Nobody is going to eat more, they are going to dance and go home, please, please."  
Francis smiled, "Let's make him happy, he did a great job."  
Lovino grumbled, but then accepted. He called Emma, Alfred and the rest of the helpers, he put a nice cloth over the small table in the kitchen, a bottle or two of red wine, the left-overs of the day, some pieces of the cake Francis made in the morning, two extra portions of the desserts, in case something went wrong.  
The two brothers sat close, the wife of the older sighed jokingly and sat next to Francis. Alfred hesitated, feeling his legs a bit shaken, his knees weak, and then sat right next to the chef.  
Lovino opened the first bottle of wine, claiming, "Well, let's celebrate the great work of today!"  
Francis laughed, taking away the glass from Alfred, as he tried to get some wine, "No, no... You are still a child in America, isn't it?", he joked, brotherly.  
Alfred pouted, "We're not in America, I am of age, here."  
Francis winked, flirty, "Good to know."  
Lovino kicked him on the ankle, furious and silent, then grinned and insisted, "Don't bother the kid, we drank our first wine at Christmas parties when eleven."  
Francis coughed, swallowed a curse word and nodded, defeated, while Alfred started drinking eagerly.  
Francis stared at the young boy, savouring the sweet juice, at the victorious grin on his face, at the relaxed, happy, closed eyes, at the way the hair fell slightly on the side of his cheeks.  
Cute.  
Just so cute.  
And inviting, like a full, red, shiny apple on the motherfucking tree of Eden.  
He would have sank his teeth in that neck, quickly, like in the warm flesh of a prey, tasting its salty skin and the trembling heartbeat.  
He sighed, rubbing his hair, like to pray to brush away the desire from them and from his stupid head.  
His look kept running away, sailing, trying to grasp glimpses of that soft smile and those azure eyes.  
  



	4. 4

**#4**  
  
"Think you're funny, think you're smart! - Alfred shouted, half-whining - Think you're gonna break my heart!"  
Francis shook his head, smiling, "Let's go home, kid."  
Him and Alfred were the last ones to go: Lovino and Emma went out first, right after she whispered something in his ears with a very soft smile, Feliciano followed and so the others. It was so slow and so sudden at the same time that Francis realized to be alone with Alfred only after nobody renewed the bottles of spirit on the table.   
The American boy was completely drunk and Francis was not sure how he managed to clear his throat, call to himself all of his self-control, and behave as brotherly as possible.  
"You may be good looking, but you're not a piece of art.", Alfred blurted out, giggling.  
Francis stared at him, confused.  
He forrowed his eyebrows a bit, "I'll try not to take this personally."  
Alfred laughed loudly and started snorting.  
Francis got closer, "Where do you live, kid?"  
"Are you calling me kid because you have a daddy kink or because you think you're Rick Blaine?"  
"You won't discover that until chapter six. - he tilted his head, but it was a terrible idea and he had to massage his temples - I will bring you home."  
"Second star to the right and straight on until morning."   
"Alfred. - he said, firmly - You are drunk, I am enough tipsy to get pissed off, tell me your adress."  
The boy looked at him straight in the eyes, fluttering his eyeslashes, "I don't want to go home, it's dark there."  
Francis fell silent.  
He bit his lips.  
A dark, empty home: he knew how that felt like, how it smelled like, how the emptiness attached to your bones, sticky, and clung to your throat, strangling you. He knew how it felt to be alone.  
"Fine...", his voice trembled, resounding darker and lower.  
  


* * *

  
  
Francis entered in the apartment with Alfred half-laying on his shoulders and singing terrible songs he was not sure the origin of. The cat came to mew at him, asking where he had been, but when he saw his human-shaped hunch,  stared perplexed and his little mew seemed much closer to worry and confusion.  
Alfred laughed and jumped, "Kitty, kitty!"  
Francis layed him on the sofa, like he was a heavy box. Alfred kept moving his arms histerically, like he were to hug and invisible, giant cat.  
"I should have known you're a cat dude, you struck me as a cat dude. You and your glowing glossy shiny hair."  
"...thank you? - Francis scratched his neck, confused, then tried to open his eyes more and understood he was tipsier than planned - I should make us some espresso."  
Francis stood up, tied - messily - his hair in a small ponytail, and went into the kitchen next to the living room; Alfred kept staring at him, with the dreamy, watery look of a drunk boy, with rosy cheeks and a thirsty throat raging, on fire.  
Francis, as the drunk Alfred saw him, was blurry and splendid. He seemed to shine, his golden locks and the eyes between cerulean and wisteria violet appeared stronger, more intense, like colours got saturated overnight. His gestured seemed more magical, more musical.   
"You are a fucking piece of art, fuck you..."  
Francis turned, "Mh?"  
His movements were actually a bit slower. Obviously he was able to handle wine, differently from Alfred, but then the others started to pour Gin and Vodka, which was a terrible co-starring duo for him, because he never could get enough of the first and the second made him extremelly nauseous at the first glass.  
Even thought he was not drunk - and he knew, because his drunk state was basically an overblown, overdramatical, oversuicidal philosophical monologue about everything doomed in the life of men - he felt confused, tipsy, enough euphoric to get reckless. But he didn't have to. No.  
He didn't have to do the things he wanted to.  
Alfred stared at him, whispering, "Fuck you."  
"You're welcome for sleeping on the sofa, yes."  
"Fuck me, then.", he corrected himself, with a snort which made some stuff come out of his nose.  
Meringue stared at both of the humans with a mix of misbelief and pity.  
"You don't know what you are saying...", Francis mumbled, giving him a coup of hot, black coffee.  
Alfred held Francis' by his tie, pulling him closer and roared, "What if I did?"  
The coffee spilt on the ground, without a sound, Francis lost himself into the eyes of the colour of a spring morning sky. Alfred parted his lips, slowly, eagerly.  
Francis felt his old heart skipping a beat and then catched Alfred's lips in his own, pulling him close.   
Their lips brushed together quickly, but Francis put his hand under Alfred's nape, forcing him to open it more to welcome his tongue. He was hungry, greedy - almost violent.  
Alfred gasped into the kiss, for a second, then his mouth was filled by Francis, pushing inside him. His tongue caressed and led Alfred's one, wrapping it in warmth.   
He pinned him down, letting him drown into the leather of the sofa.  
Francis tasted him: slowly, yet ferociously.  
Francis was voracious.  
Alfred shivered, his head spinning, dizzy - letting the softness of Francis' tongue, the rythm of its caress, dominate his senses. The man pushing himself as far and as long as he could, savouring the warm and moist taste of the other's mouth.  
Francis pulled him even closer, bit slightly the bottom lip of Alfred, just to let him gasp again, to feel him trembling against him, his breath vanishing, his whole body pulsing against him.   
It felt like silk, it felt like fire.  
Alfred clinged onto him, pushing him more against him, to invite him to drown his mouth into his, to merge, their legs starting to move and rub, while their hands searched for a portion of the skin of the other.  
Alfred sucked Francis' lips, separating a second, then invited him again in, licking the lines of his shivering mouth. And Francis held him again, tighter, stronger, his sense getting number and yet intensified by the arousal.  
Francis smirked, as Alfred separated again, breathing in desperately, enjoying the vibe of desperation trembling into his fragile breath.  
Alfred then kissed him on the cheek, a bit clumsyly on the jawline and, then, his hands started touching Francis' belt.  
The man, then, woke up from his state of numbness.  
"Whoa, whoa. - he separated, backing up, quickly - That, emh, would be a bit too much."  
"What the hell are you speaking about?", Alfred whined.  
Francis tried to sound as firm and sober as possible, "You're drunk. It's not a good idea to have sex. You could regret it."  
"What makes you think I..."  
Alfred became really pale and put a hand over his mouth, while his stomach started moving quickly in and out.  
Francis took him by the waist, leading him, gently, "Bathroom, bathroom..."  
Alfred clinged onto him, with a very mortified look, before puking on his way to the toilet.  
With a disgusted mew, Meringue left the room, wondering by itself how humans can manage to be so ungraceful and loud, when they are so useful to open cans.  
  


* * *

  
  
Alfred slided the hand over his face, pulling his skin down with the palm, opening the eyes slowly.   
He forrowed his eyebrows, confused by the sunlight, almost hurt. He shielded himself with the hand and grumbled in pain.  
"Meow."  
He turned, slightly, on the side and made an effort to open his eyes more.  
"Meow."  
"Oh... - Alfred smiled a bit - A cat."  
Meringue stared at him, came closer to sniff his hand and backed up perplexed by the horrible smell coming from him.   
"Sorry, kitty."  
His voice sounded horribly hoarse and cracked, Alfred touched his throat, trying to swallow.  
"Sleeping beauty, good morning.", a voice welcomed him from the background.  
Alfred turned, seeing Francis in black boxer briefs, with a messy bun , cigarette pending from his mouth. As Francis smiled, Alfred shrieked.  
"My, oh my. - he commented, flatly - You didn't seem so horrified yesterday."  
Alfred stuttered, looking around and then at himself: he still had jeans, but no shirt. Did they really...? While he didn't remember anything? He couldn't have denied to want it, but not like this, not like that.  
Francis clenched his fist, watching the guy hesitate. He bit his bottom lip, sucking it, forcefully. A wave of bitterness stained his mouth.  
"Does your back hurt?", he almost grinned, fakely.  
Alfred flinched, he nervously rubbed his arm and looked more around, trying to find some answers. Suddenly he remembered something that he thought was a dream: Francis' mouth, over him, a passionate, full, perfect kiss. And after that? Was that a dream or...?  
"...what happened yesterday exactly?"  
Francis had his arms crossed, he gave a small sigh and tried to imitate a tender smile, "Nothing. You fell asleep on the sofa as soon as we entered."  
Alfred sighed in relief, Francis grabbed a old shirt from a chair to cover himself. Then he remembered, "I took off your shirt to clean it, you puked on it."  
"Oh... Oh, I am sorry...", he muttered, mortified.  
"It's fine. - Francis granted, softly, yet with a weird pitch - Come, I was preparing breakfast: crêpes with raspberry jam. I made both coffee and tea, I was not sure what you'd want."  
Alfred stared at him, "...so... nothing happened?"  
"Nothing."  
"Oh. - he felt so lost - Oh okay."  
He really remembered that kiss. It was a dream, sure, but it felt so real. And so good.  
He just hoped he didn't say anything embarrassing to Francis about wanting to make out or needing his tongue or whatever.  
Francis, on the other side, was looking at him with a umcomfortable sensation of being pierced through the stomach. Sure, he knew Alfred was drunk during the kiss, but he seemed way more than consensual, and then the morning after the american boy appeared so disgusted at the idea of having sex with him. He felt... worn.   
He pulled the hair behind his ear, hid his eyes and wondered if really alcohol was so necessary.  
Alfred stared at him, like a doubtful, yet curious, animal. His eyes shone, his hair was ruffled, his soul green.  
Francis tried to deny to himself a stupid pain in the guts, "Come, sit. - he swallowed - You need to eat something after yesterday."  
"Thank you..."  
Francis felt seasick.  
He liked that smile.  
You shouldn't like a smile.  
Alfred came to sit in the kitchen, the cat followed and asked for some yogurt, while Francis kept moving nervously, trying to put on the table whatever Alfred might have wanted. He poured coffee, he sat and played a bit with his hair, absent-mindendly.  
Alfred opened his first crêpe, put an overdose amount of jam over it, closed it in a quick, tight wrap and bit it eagerly.  
"Goddammit, it's good.", he mumbled, eating it cravingly.  
Francis chuckled, relaxing a bit - he put a spoon of jam, one of yogurt and a bit of honey over it, then closed the little duough like an evelope and proceeded to eat with fork and knife.  
Alfred observed him a bit.  
The chef drank some coffee with milk - no sugar added , he sipped it slowly, licking quickly the bit of coffee that stained his top lip. He moved gently, his cutting was precise and firm.  
When the cat finished his treat, it jumped on the table and started purring at the owner, until he, chuckling, gave him a couple of scratches behind the ear.  
"Sorry if he jumps on the table, Meringue can be quite bossy."  
"Oh no! No, it's fine. I like cats."  
"Really? - Francis smiled, leaning on the back of his hand - You seemed the dog-type."  
"I had both at home... I like dogs because they obey blindly, they are easy. - he spoke pretty bluntly, probably due to the hangover - I like cats because they are independent and you don't have to break your neck for them."  
"I see...", Francis took a note mentally.  
"But you, I could say you had a cat."  
"Really?"  
"Yeah, you don't seem like you'd pick up the dog poop not even if they payed you."  
Francis laughed, nodding, "I wouldn't."  
They drank their coffees with a tender smile, looking at each other, before a slight embarrassment caught them by their ankles.  
Francis scratched his nose, "So, how is your permanence in France going?"  
Alfred swallowed happyly a new bite of breakfast, "Mh... - he smiled before replying - It's weird, but nice. - he found a baguette, broke it and bit it with a good portion of jam - It feels like being a diver sometimes, but you have some... something around."  
Francis smiled too, sucking his lips, "I guess you mean atmosphere."  
"Yeah!"  
The chef poured some more coffee into his cup, "It's the best at dawn..."  
Alfred laughed a bit, shaking his head.  
"What's up? - Francis blinked - Did I say something wrong?"  
Alfred smiled widely, raised his eyebrows and asked, "Do you really make an habit of walking around before seven?"  
"Ah... - Francis smiled - It's my favourite time of the day."  
"Dawn?"  
The French man nodded, entwinded his fingers and rested his head on the back of the hands, tilting it a bit on the side.   
"Despite popular opinion, I am not very happy with too much noise, with the shining lights at their fullest, you know? - he sighed, smiling - The half-empty city, the sun bringing out azure and pink in the sky, the gentle scents and the small chirps before the cars and the full roads... these things relax me."  
Alfred seemed surprised, but he didn't admit it.  
He stared at Francis and then, slowly, silently, he smiled and leant back into his chair, resting the back.   
With a deep breath, he relaxed, letting a weird, unknown, tension slip out of his shoulders.  
When did it come? How much was it there? Now it melted away.  
And Alfred found himself thinking "it feels good".  
Francis, in general, felt good.  
That dreamt kiss felt good.  
Alfred smiled more, "Is it that your favourite thing to do: walk around in the morning?"  
"Mh... - he caressed the kitten - I guess it would be one of them. - he looked at the boy, serious - And you? What do you like to do?"  
A mumble, a grumble, the American scratched his head, pondering over an answer, "I like ton of things, but nothing, you know... nothing is whoa."  
"Except acting."  
"Except acting."  
"Why do you like it?"  
Alfred was wondering what to tell, whether to open up and how much, but then he realized he didn't have much of a choice about it.  
Francis was weird: he brought voice and words out of his mouth, almost forcefully yet gracefully. Francis trembled in his veins and empty spaces, he echoed in his mind and always found a way to his heart.  
"... I know the words: all the words I am going to say and they are going to say... and it's all part of a pact: we know we are lying. Me and the others. Everybody knows... - he refused to look into Francis' eyes - And even so,  you can say all the words in the world, but then you move, you show your face... you act with your body and the words change meaning. You can change words, you can destroy them."  
Francis stared, mesmerized.  
His fingers caressed the table, trying to hold onto it, and with it to something, before drowing into Alfred.  
He bit his lips, slightly, forcing himself to keep back the real question.  
Which words Alfred wanted to destroy so badly?  
Which lie he had never forgiven?  
Alfred seemed to come to his sense and laughed, hard and strong, putting an arm behind his head, "Maybe it's just that I like being at the center of the attention!"  
Francis smiled, sipping his coffee.  
"Oceans pretend to be puddles, puddles to be oceans."  
Alfred arched an eyebrow, "Are you calling me humble?"  
Francis put his cup and dish into the sink to wash them, he smiled at Alfred and shook his head, gently, somehow motherly, "Or scared."  
Alfred was about to reply when suddenly, from the living room, the extremely loud sound of his ringtone called for his attention. He rushed to reply, while Francis started cleaning the dishes, giggling to himself.  
"Hello? - a brief pause - Again? Are you serious? Do you plan to call me for the next seven years?"  
Francis frowned and looked at Alfred with the corner of his eyes. Meringue went closer to the American boy and sat on the sofa as he wanted to have a better view on the scene.  
"Look, I... I also can't speak now. - he mumbled a bit umcomfortable, touching his other ear - I am... no, it's not like that! - Francis saw him clenching his fist - Oh my god, look, fuck you. Fuck you!", he shouted, hanging up.  
Francis came closer, slowly, "Can I... help?"  
Alfred shook his head, gave him a fake pristine smile and searched for his coat around the house, "Nah, it's fine. All good, all fucking good. Ah, here it is!"  
"...I don't mean to intrude, but..."  
Alfred opened the door, he hesitated a bit, seemed undecisive but then, quickly, replied, "Bye, Francis."  
He closed the door.  
Meringue meowed sadly.  
  



	5. 5

**#5**  
  
The last warm sunlight came through the opaque glass of the window, caressing the curtains and lingering in the room, tainted in a shimmering peach orange.  
Alfred squinted his eyes, annoyed by the sunset.  
He scratched his head, grumbling.  
After he returned home from Francis' house, the last thing he wanted to do was thinking, so he did everything that could have allowed him to avoid to: he decided to listen to ridicolously loud music and to watch extremely stupid action movies, the type you can't even laugh at about how ridiculous they are, because they don't even have the pretense to make a point, then he focused on food, the kind that wouldn't have make him reflect about Francis, so, pre-made, dividing himself between frozen pizza and jars of Ben&Jerry's. He even went to sleep. But it was useless.  
The low baritone voice of the singer, the boy with a flirty smile in the movie, the sweetness of the chocolate brownie pieces were there. And there was a piece of Francis everywhere.  
He sighed, took off his glasses and started massaging the bridge of his nose.  
He let his tongue clack against his palate, staring at the ceiling.  
Nothing happened, then?  
He found himself disappointed, clinging to that stupid dreamt kiss.  
But he promised himself not to think about it, not to even imagine in the back corridor of his head how it would be with Francis. He said to himself it would have worked.  
It was useless to lie to himself, but he had always been pretty good at that.  
He started biting his fingernails, hard, until he reached the flesh and it started bleeding.  
Francis felt good.  
Francis was warmth.   
His smile seemed to have sunk somehow somewhere between his lungs. And there it still was, filling him with feverish joy and restless desire.  
But his brother. Fuck, fuck.  
His brother.  
Why did he go away after Arthur called him? What could have Francis thought? He surely seemed like an idiot and an ungrateful brat.  
His brother's presence was like signing up for an anger black out, a fit of rage and emotional instability.   
Arthur was always like that: his controlling habits, his dark smiles, his way to go through his life, eliminating the parts he found rotten and dirty, giving it back tasteless and empty ...   
God, that was ridiculous.  
"I should just call him... I should tell him something."  
Yeah, but what?  
Nothing happened. He dreamt he got kissed by his boss, who probably was not even interested in him - he was just a kid, after all.   
A kid that puked over his couch, Jesus Christ.  
Alfred sighed, lifting the mobile and staring at the screen: three texts from Arthur and a phone call from an unknown number, probably again his brother.  
"Alfred, come home. This childish escape is getting upsettingly long. - he read, imitating the other's voice, then adding - Well, fuck you, did you ever see your eyebrows?"  
He opened the next one and scoffed, annoyed to no end, "Dad and mom are waiting for you to come back, do you really not care about us at all? ... All hail, the supreme passive-aggressor!"  
Then there was the unknown call. Really, the oldest trick in the book, Arthur.  
The third message stroke a peculiar chord in his heart. An old grudge, which he thought he buried, came back, like a new tide, unable to be destroyed by the undertow.  
"Do you think this behaviour has any decency? Do you really lack of any respect for us?"  
Decency.  
That word, again.  
"Indecent behavior", yes, that's how he called that, years ago.  
That's how he called him: indecent.  
He crawled into the blankets once again, pushing his face against the pillow and mumbling curse words. He caught some of Francis' cologne on himself and sank inside his soul.  
He felt cold without Francis.  
An acute "click" shivered down his spine, making him open his eyes: somebody was opening his door. Fuck fuck fuck, didn't he close it?  
He jumped up and got the baseball bat next to his bed, before slowly walking to the living room, mentally remembering all he knew about self-defence, which was a variable amount between zero and nothing.  
"Why didn't I ever finished a Jackie Chan movie in my life?", he cried mentally.  
"Emh... Alfred?"  
That voice.  
That so welcomed voice.  
"Francis! - he exclaimed, happyly, running towards him - You are you!"  
Francis chuckled, "I am me, yes. - he stared at the bat - Do you mind putting that down?"  
Alfred laughed, nervously, and dropped the terrible weapon, then looked again at the chef, "Hey, I... I am happy to see you."  
Francis smiled, gently.  
"I know I might be a bit creepy. - he admitted - But you forgot your shirt at my place. I cleaned it and, mh, so, since your address was on the contract, I... I tried to call you, but you didn't reply."  
"Oh, it was you!"  
"... emh, yes? - Francis seemed embarrassed, he put a lock of hair behind one of his ears - I wanted to see if you were okay..."  
"I am. I am. - Alfred smiled, then swallowed - I had family problems."  
"If you want to speak about them, I..."  
"Look, I... - he licked his lips, searching for words, but what he found was that Francis was staring at them, gulping slowly - My family is a mess. And not like a mess like all families are. It's just a mess. And I don't want to... throw it all over you."  
The chef's hands trembled.  
Yet, somehow, in that instant, Alfred felt that he could have fell from a building and those hands would have caught him.  
Francis gained courage, "It wouldn't be thrown over me. I worry for you."  
Alfred lingered, finding himself indecisive, again, and frustrated, because he was not used to being unsure, at all. He couldn't understand Francis.  
He found a trench, a giant one, between what Francis seemed at first and what he was starting to show him, unwillingly, probably unconsciously. The flirty chef, who clearly could catch whoever he wanted, was so gentle and caring.   
And he found himself attracted to him, but not only that...   
"Why do you want to help me...?", he asked, confused, forrowing his eyebrows.   
Where did he have to draw the line?  
"Because I like you. - Francis replied, simply, easily - The way you spoke about passion and acting... and you are really a nice boy, I want to help you."  
Alfred didn't know how to interpret those words: if signing up for hope or loss of it.  
Liked him? In what kind of way?  
Well, that was not something he could have asked, right? Not directly at least.  
And, surely, he couldn't have added that he dreamt about kissing him and the idea made his knees weak.  
He spoke, half-blurting out, exasperated, "My family doesn't know where I am."  
"What?"  
"I left home. - Francis was about to speak but Alfred started again - Look, I didn't have a choice. They always controlled everything, decided everything for me, since I was a kid. I couldn't be myself."  
Francis sat down and invited Alfred to do the same.  
"You didn't tell this to anybody? They're probably really worried."  
"I told my father I was going to leave, he just doesn't know where to."  
"And he let you?", the chef seemed baffled and almost hurt at the idea of somebody caring so little about their son. Somebody else, better said.  
"He didn't have a choice... - Alfred admitted, a bit hesitating - I told him I would have created a scandal otherwise."  
Francis frowned, "I beg your pardon?"  
"My father is Frank Jones, a republican senator. - he took a brief pause - And I'm his gay bastard son.", he concluded in a dry laugh.  
Francis' stomach dropped.  
He remembered Alfred saying he was adopted, but he didn't imagine this was the truth. And his father's political orientation also explained why he was so suprised about his open bisexuality.  
He didn't know what to say to him without making things heavier for him.  
Opening up was not easy and Alfred did it, firmly, trying to laugh it off, cutting it as short as possible to make sure it would have hurt as little as possible.  
"So... at the phone, it was..."  
"My brother. - Alfred took another pause, observing Francis, silently - I want to act. I want to be free."  
Francis realized something then, but didn't speak, he couldn't admit it to himself. It was hopeless, after all.  
"I will help you.", he granted, smiling.  
And he would have.  
With all of his strenght.  
That boy, with shiny azure eyes and a bright smile, with his moody ways and weird sense of humor, with that strong flame inside... that boy, Francis really liked him.  
Francis gulped.  
"I will help you.", he repeated.  
Alfred smiled.  
"Ah... - he shuttered - Do you want something to drink? A coffee?"  
"Sure.", a small smile.  
Alfred looked around: shirts hanging on chairs, the sofa cushion on the floor, food jars and bottles scattered. Suddenly he felt extremely embarrassed, like if he went out of the house in pijamas.  
"Ermh, sorry for the mess."  
"It's fine, really-"  
"I'm gonna... put on some coffee.", he said, rushing into the small kitchen.  
OK, he wanted to know.  
Like in which way?  
Fuck. Fuck.  
He was bi, he was gay - if life was like a movie, they would clearly hang out, fall in love and be together forever, but nah, stupid real life, in which there are millions of gay people and you don't have to fall in love with the one you share more scenes with at the start of the season.  
He was handsome and kind. And... shit.  
He begged himself not to fall completely for his boss. That would have been really too much shit to handle.   
Alfred felt so absurdly nervous: it was not his first time liking somebody, obviously, but, in the end... in the end, things got complicated so fast, and his family, and the hidden truth...  
He was not sure how to really behave with all the freedom he was allowed to have now.  
What was he supposed to aim for?   
"Alfred. - Francis came from behind him - I was thinking if you would like, we can also go outside to have the coffee."  
"Is it because of the sofa pillow?"  
"... to be honest, I am terrified of american coffee. - he joked, smiling a bit - Also, I would like to take a walk with you."  
Alfred seemed perplexed and tilted his head to the side.  
"Didn't I already say I really enjoy your company?"  
Francis' smile grew and Alfred felt swallowed.   
  


* * *

  
  
"So... - Francis smiled at the waiter - I will pick a Ispahan, a religieuse caramel and a rose tea. And for the boy... - he looked at Alfred to ask confirm as he was remembering his order - ... a plaisir sucré and a carre chocolat with an american coffee, thank you."  
Alfred smiled, "Thank you. Everything seems really yummy here."  
"I am picky with where to eat."  
Alfred licked his lips, trying to gain some courage to speak, if not honestly, at least easily.  
Francis came to the rescue from the awkwardness, "I am taking it as a personal duty to make you discover many small sides of Paris."  
The boy laughed, "Cities are not that interesting to me, you know?"  
"Mh? Then what is?"  
"People."  
"Well, I can't make you meet every person in Paris, the circle of my connections isn't so ample."  
Alfred stared at him, silently. His eyes shone, again, with a cold sparkle, like the black dark pearls of a shark.   
His voice sounded sharp, red.  His mouth was half-open, his teeth in sight, like an animal waiting to taste flesh.  
"Tell me about you then."  
Francis swallowed, "Me? - his eyes ran over Alfred's lips, desperately hungry for them - Isn't that sort of a boring topic?"  
"You struck me as way more narcissistic."  
"I am. - he admitted, smiling, suggestively - I just refused so to seem well-mannered."  
Alfred laughed, "Okay, so... well, a tragic backstory for a tragic backstory. C'mon, I expect some drama.", he clapped.  
Francis tried to smile, but it came out weak, the corners fell soon and his eyes seemed to get darker.  
"There is really not much to talk about over coffee... - he admitted - It's overall pretty banal."  
The treats arrived, together with their hot cups. Alfred's jaw dropped a couple of centimeters as he saw the delicious amount of chocolate his cakes were made of, he mentally thanked all the gods he knew the existence of, just to be sure not to neglect any of the possible responsible for his fortune.  
Francis smiled, looking at him tenderly.  
As their looks met again, Alfred coughed and confessed, "Once we talked about siblings and you seemed very attached to your sister, I admit I am curious about your life..."  
Francis mixed his tea and started sipping it, pondering.  
"What to say, mh... ? - he smiled, thinking - It was always my mom, my sister and I, it was a very feminine enviroment."  
"That explains a lot."  
"Cheeky."  
Alfred snickered, Francis rolled his eyes, then coughed and proceeded, "My mother was a singer, not a famous one, obviously, but her voice was extremely soft and sweet."  
Alfred smiled.  
"And your sister?"  
"Monique? - Francis smiled - She is like a little bird. - a small chuckle, he started eating his caramel religieuse - She lives in Monaco now, she is a fashion designer. She presented some nice collection for a bigger fashion brand."  
"You are all very... creative. - Alfred seemed envious - Nobody in my family would conceive it."  
A laugh, "Ah... when times were bad, my mom stopped singing, she started different, small jobs. But she was a dreamer. And so am I, after all."  
The boy seemed to remember something, his eyeslids fluttered a couple of times, as he was thinking about whether to ask for confirms or not.  
"You didn't have a father."  
Francis shook his head, "I don't really know if he is alive nowadays, but I confess I don't care so much..."  
He relaxed on the back of the chair, took a spoon of the caramel cream and tasted it, slowly, closing his eyes, letting the flavour invade his mouth gently and intensely.  
"I crave people with feelings. - he let out, almost in a whisper, then his voice gained strenght - I crave passion. I get nourished, fueled by love, for cooking, for my family, for beauty. And people without passion are... dry. Tasteless. Like, you see, look at this..."  
Alfred frowned, "The puff pastry?"  
"Religieuse. - he corrected, patiently - You see, it's not only the pâte à choux. You need the crème pâtissière au caramel. Imagine it without the cream. It would surely be good, but would it be tasty? Would it be full of the flavours that caramel and the fleur de sel give? No. It would be arid, empty... sad. It would be sad. Without love we are just pâte à choux, we are a dry shell."  
Alfred seemed to understand, he smiled. And felt full.  
He felt his passion for acting as something important. He felt like what always made him different from his family, that longing for something they found stupid, that lack of satisfaction in a square role, suddenly all of that was a spark, was a proof that he was full.  
His smile grew bigger and brighter, until his eyes focused on Francis' one; and then, he closed his mouth and his glance became more tender.  
Love, mh?  
"Alfred?"  
"Al.", he corrected.  
Francis seemed enchanted by him, somehow. At loss of words. Compeltley unable to collect his thoughts and put them in order.  
Alfred had to admit it was flattering, somehow, seeing somebody so flirty getting a bit flustered.  
"I am really glad I met you."


	6. 6

**#6**  
  
Alfred  was drumming his fingertips on the table, tracing the lines of the soft cotton napkin, while the scent of coffee and tea brought his mind somewhere else, far away yet familiar.  
Francis' words lingered through his head, like a caress on an inner skin.  
And he felt open.  
Exposed, but not unpleasantly.  
They started discussing feverishly, eagerly - glimpsing at their soul alight underneath.  
Smiles growing unconsciously, fingers hesitating on cups, slowly sucked lips, looks melting into aroused glares: slowly, it was like they started stepping into a very delicate space of velvet and naked nerves.  
"Can I ask how come you decided to come to Paris to study? - Francis smiled, asking, out of the blue - I mean, don't actors prefer America or England?"  
"Well, this academy is actually really nice.", Alfred scratched his head.  
"Oh, come on, there is something else!"  
Alfred was clearly embarrassed, "You'd laugh."  
"Promise not to laugh."  
"If you laugh, I'll kill you."  
"I like threatening boys. - Francis winked, smirked and laughed - C'mon, tell me."  
Alfred sighed, smiled , "When I was a kid, there was a movie I always liked... and the main character found what she wanted in Paris, so..."  
"An American in Paris?"  
"How old are you exactly?", Alfred asked, squinting his eyes.  
"Then what? - he seemed annoyed but his smile was sweet - And don't tell me Anastasia."  
"French Kiss."  
Francis sucked his lips, grinning a bit, like he was proud or like he was holding himself from laughing.   
"I said not to laugh!"  
Francis winked, sipped his tea, "I always keep my promises. - his mobile started ringing - Hello?"  
"Hello..."  
"Monique? Something wrong?"  
"I... I was thinking of arriving home this weekend, would that be okay?", her voice trembled slightly.  
"Yes, obviously, little bird. - he smiled, worried - Are you sure you don't want to talk to me about something?"  
"I am fine. - she lied - Did you go to visit mom this week?"  
"Not yet. - he looked at Alfred - I was... busy."  
"The happy kind of busy?"  
"Definitely."  
"I see... - she hummed, strangely satisfied - How is this one called: Adèle, Eléonore, Chantal?"  
"Ah... it's not... don't make me say embarrassing things. - he coughed, hiding his face a bit, as Alfred could understand - Do I come to take you at the airport?"  
"Please. It'd be really nice."  
"Okay, little cabbage. I'll call you later. Love you."  
"Love you too."  
Alfred squinted his eyes, perplexed, "Little cabbage?"  
"You don't use it in America?"  
"...you don't realize how fucked up this is, right?"  
"Anyway, mh, my sister will return for the weekend and..."  
"Oh. - Alfred gave a bit of a sad smile - You'll be busy then."  
"Actually, I - would you like to come to dinner once? She is really nice..."  
"Only if you don't call her little cabbage."  
"Deal.  - Francis winked - ...want to go?"  
"Sure... but, where?"  
"In the best place you can be on Wednesday or Friday in the evening...", he promised.  
  


* * *

  
  
The orange lights in the long corridor seemed like a welcome, low, autumn sunset. The rooms had the gentle smell of flowers, not like from a cleaning product, but from those bags full of dried nature.  Outside the big windows, dark clouds glowed from far away thunders for seconds, then falling back asleep in the soundless blue.  
Alfred looked around, mesmerized by the high ceilings and the beauty surrounding him, in the rooms full of gold and marbles.  
"Never were here before?", Francis asked, smirking, satisfied.  
"No... - Alfred took some steps before him - I am not so much into museums, I admit... - he seemed ecstatic - ... is it really open at night?"  
"Ah-a.", Francis nodded.  
The american boy's smile grew wider with anticipation, "I want you to show me everything!"  
"... really? That would take a lot."  
"Look, I wouldn't pick a museum as preferred destination, but I'm here, the atmosphere is cool, I have a native guide and a bunch of this stuff has amazing stories, so... I wanna know, can you show me?"  
And then they swayed, like waves, like dust in the wind - they walked through halls inhabited by fake skies and imaginary forests, stepping through colours brighter than life could offer, tiptoeing between statues with clothes and hair so real you could forget how white they were and which almost seemed to dance even with their marble feet stuck on the ground.  
Alfred's eyes widened in wonder, walking through Neptune shaking away monstrous and submissive waves and Prometheus in a whirlwind of silky drapery while an eagle opened his bowels.   
He had to stop himself from touching.  
He would have caressed the soft fabrics of a crowd of men in front of a shivering woman, let his heart rest in the fresh spring grass of some scenery, lost himself in the lights and the colours of a world born and dead in the space of a canvas.  
"This one..."  
Francis' comment seemed to bring him back, Alfred turned towards the statue the older man was looking at. Oh, he knew that.  
"Isn't this... emh..."  
"Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss. - Francis smiled - It's one of my favourites."  
Alfred came closer, "How come I didn't have doubts."  
He chuckled a bit bitterly, "Pft..."  
Alfred stared at the statue too.  
He couldn't deny the beauty of the work, even if he felt the temptation to, for a moment, out of the mere malice of his young age.  
The statue in front of him was so tenderly white it seemed to shine, but still, it didn't seem unnatural - it was just heavenly. Like if some things were too beautiful to be touched. The skin, he thought, would have probably felt soft and warm at the touch, because so it appeared, bending a bit under the one of the other body, or being folded and embraced by the thinnest of draperies, which curved naturally, gently, like lagoons, letting the waves come home after long, sad, winter tides. Even feet and fingers were like real.  
What got closer to breaking the spell was the hair of the God of Love, but then, turning, looking from behind, where a gentle waterfall of the curls of Psyche was, Alfred fell again in a turmoil of warmth and flashes.  
Blond curls.  
The parted lips of the two lovers were on the cusp of a kiss that would never come and, in that eternal waiting, Alfred found himself trembling.  
He felt the need to be held.  
And Francis' hand came, kind, on the side of his waist, almost on his hip, like a column.  
"So... - the younger one tried to said in a snarky pitch - ...I know if I give you the chance to, you'll tell me everything about this piece."  
"Am I really that predictable?"  
"From time to time... c'mon, enlighten the naïf one."  
Francis smiled, his look getting softer, as he observed the statue.  
"She has been just awaken, just now, and with her limbs still run by slumber, with her sleepy eyes and gestures, she already searches for him, reaching up towards his neck, while he holds her. And that circle they form, you see it?, it's the circle of their perpetual return at love, at this state of continuous research for the other. - he got flustered and scratched a bit his own cheek - All the desire, all the emotion, is there, on the edge of them. You see all of those emotions are going to burst as soon as they kiss, but you don't see that, no, you see their half-open eyes, the enchantment of finding each other again... that's the best moment, you know? Not the explosion, but the silence before filled with... light, no?"  
Alfred stared at Francis' lips an awful amount of time before nodding extremely slowly.  
"They are so... lost in each other, it's... beautiful."  
Alfred smiled, "You must be really an hopeless romantic."  
"Sort of. I guess. - Francis sighed - I was more, some years ago, but..."  
"What happened?"  
"What didn't happen! - he laughed, bitterly - Love... never came, many lovers, eh, but not Love."  
"You speak like an old man."  
"People age only when they wait and they bear the years their wait lasted."  
Alfred pouted, then the pout melted into a frown.  
"It's not like you're dead or something."  
"No, no... but, you know, I just wonder..."  
"... if a person will come?"  
"Is it very cheesy?"  
"A bit."  
Francis smiled at the honest answer.  
"Fran?"  
"Yes?"  
"How come she died and then found him again? Were they separated?"  
"Well... - he massaged his stubble - You see, the pact was Cupid would have come every night and make love to Pysche and be with her, but she would have never ever try to see the face of his lover. And... and she was curious. - he smiled - She was curious and she lost him."  
"But then they met again."  
"She did all she could and, in the end, he came back to her. And they loved each other forever."  
Alfred seemed to jump a bit.  
"Ah, but... what does that mean?"  
"Well, you know, I think Pysche means 'mind' and Cupid in Greek is Eros, which means 'desire' or 'love', so... I guess, mind always tries to understand love, to catch it, to rationalize it. We always try to capture love, make it ours and... and give it a shape we can understand with all our limits... but love is not like that. Love is not just a lover, it's a god."  
"So it's not only about trust and obeying..."  
"Rarely things are only about that."  
Alfred stared again at the statue, while they went away, to meet new dining couples and sad maidens, to climb between sweet viridians and furious crimsons.  
They found themselves a small corner, in the end, next to the cave of the Virgin of the rocks, to rest a bit, on a small velvet bench.   
"Francis?"  
"Yes?"  
Alfred fell silent. He closed his lips, slowly.  
He found himself speechless and awkward, like words inside his mouth became embers.  
He shook his head, gaining a perplexed and worried look, which he sent away with a quick smile.  
"Ah, let's go further... after this, though, you need to offer me something."  
"Just not a drink, so you can spare this shirt.", he chuckled.  
Alfred stuck his tongue out, trying to push back in his heart.  
  


* * *

  
  
Alfred whistled loudly, grabbing the iron bars of the bridge, leaning out of it, staring at the gloomy mass of shadowy waters running under them. The light of the street lamps barely threw small stones of light over the silent stormy river.  
Alfred breathed in, letting his head bang a bit.  
The cool night breeze caressed and tossed his hair, like insistent kisses of a lover.  
"Why do you think love never arrived to you?"  
"I guess I was waiting for it too much..."  
Is craving too much a curse? Is giving up the self-fulfilled prophecy?  
Alfred frowned, then sighed. In the evening it was still chilly enough for his breath to condense in little white stripes of nothingness.  
His lips were still parted, getting colder and redder, while waiting for words to come out.  
"I never loved either. - he blinked - I was not free to."  
"Your father?"  
"My brother, mainly. - he chuckled - A good dude but... a bit immersed in his own control issues. Once, I... I had a guy I liked, we were thirteen, fourteen... - he smiled, bitterly, then the smile melted in another frozen breath, and it was like speaking became harder - And then he sent him away."  
Francis shivered, came closer for a few steps and then stopped. The wind was shaking coldly between his ribs.  
A feverish instinct trembled on the edge of his mouth.  
Alfred smiled, but Francis couldn't see it.  
"It requires some balls, I guess, even to decide you want to love."  
Francis came closer, walking, uncertain, over the wet stones of the bridge, where some puddles reflected the pale moonlight.  
Which courage may it ask to just being a relict of an idea?  
Which strength could have it called for hoping to feel something?  
He would have liked to ask, but his throat burnt, swallowing stones of unspoken words. He couldn't dare to speak.  
Which courage? Which strength?  
Francis shook his head.  
He couldn't, he shouldn't have... thought about him as... but he did, he felt it that way and now he was digging his own psychological grave, fucking again.  
But that boy seemed to shine in the world, like he never saw anybody before doing.  
"Alfred, I..."  
The boy turned and walked the distance through them. He grabbed the older man from the collar of his black coat and pushed them close, pressing their lips together, in a clumsy, warm kiss.  
Eager, enchanting.  
Francis breathed in and replied to the kiss, pressing Alfred by his neck and nape. Their mouths searching for each other, with the greed and the desperation of the ones who find water in the desert. They clung onto - their tongues melting breathes and moans, their hands burning their skins with desire and hunger.  
As they separated, their lips quivered.  
Francis shuddered, confused, "Ah... I..."  
"Dreaming it was not enough.", Alfred let out, in a hot whisper, panting.  
His fingers were caressing and holding Francis' cheekbones, like he had to support them. Francis lent a bit on one of those hands, closing and then opening again his eyes, gazing at Alfred.  
"You..."  
"I dreamt about kissing you. And, sure, I know it's a stupid reason to do it, but I've been thinking about it for hours and you are charming and smell nice and you make me hard and I wanted to... did I say that out loud? Tell me I didn't say it out loud. Christ, I said it out lou-"  
Francis interrupted him with another kiss, softer, deeper, letting his tongue gently entering in the boy's mouth, caressing the other tongue, inviting it to go further.  
Alfred trembled, came closer, closed his eyes and let himself being completely lost and amazed by the kiss.  
"... I should stop blabbering, right?"  
"I beg you.", Francis chuckled, leaving small, tender kisses on his bottom lip.  
Alfred nodded slowly, reaching for the mouth again.  
As they held onto each other, on the ground, their silhouettes seemed to be just one.  
  
 **Notes:**  
mon petit chou - it's an affectionate term for lovers or children ; if I am not mistaken, it's old and comes from Marie Antoniette, it literally means "my little cabbage/cauliflower" .  
As for the Louvre, I was not there since a couple of years, so I hope they didn't change a lot in the meantime, in case, shame on me.


	7. 7

Note: I am sorry for the delay, I had many family problems in these last weeks. As a side note, for this chapter the conversation is between different quotation marks (»«), because I am not using my usual computer. What a joy, I know. Next time it will be again normal. A big thank you to those who left reviews, favved, liked the fic. You made me very happy!

* * *

 

 

**7.**

 

»You did _what_?«

Francis grinned, embarrassed yet victorious, »Emh... technically speaking, he...«

»Technically speaking, I'll strangle you.«

Francis put his hands in front of Lovino, scared, »C'mon, don't be hasty in your decisions!«

»Give me a good reason not to.«

»Your pressure.«

»It will be way better without you.«

»I am your chef.«

»...mh, good point, but I can find a new one... One that doesn't fuck my waiters.«

»I am too pretty to die?«

Lovino raised an eyebrow, »Really now?«

»...well, I didn't know what else to say.«

Lovino sighed heavily, »I won't. But just because I wouldn't know where to hide your corpse.«

Francis was suddenly extremely thankful for the Italian's inability to bear any sort of noir or police show for more than two minutes.

The chef smiled, »That's enough for me and my neck.«

»But cut it now.«

»What?«

»End. It.«

»Why?«

Lovino gave to Francis the most done look he ever witnessed. He was so exasperated and tired that the bags under his eyes seemed to reach his jaw.

»... do we really have to discuss it?«

»If you want me to do something, I'd like to know why.«

»Aren't you tired of doing this shit?«

»Excuse me?«, Francis seemed to genuinely pass from confused to annoyed.

»I mean – Lovino chuckled bitterly – This whole thing of true Love, searching for the one and the result is first a series of three months relationships in which you let the problems cumulate until you feel like you're just being honest in leaving them behind with no other regret than starting it.«

»... look, I...«

»If you're not over your mother's death is fine but go to therapy, don't date ghosts until you find out they're real people.«

»What? That's not the problem.«

»Then what's the problem?«

»It was never Love, that's it.«

»Ooooh. And will it be with American boy?«, he mocked.

Francis bit the inner part of his cheek, pissed, »How am I supposed to know?«

»Then stop. I can spoiler you the end: it won't be.«

»How can you be so fucking angry at me?«, he asked.

Lovino scoffed, »I'm not angry. I am just being your talking cricket.«

Francis groaned, »Ok, fine, cricket, what if this time was... different?«

»Pft. My god, Francis, it's infatuation. Every person seems the one at  first.«

»Are you telling me that it didn't feel different with Emma since the start?«

»It's... – he shook his head, flustered, a slight happiness aroused, evoke under the anger – Don't compare!«

»Fine, but what if?«

Lovino's mouth stayed agape. He seemed dazed, paralyzed. Struck in all the bad ways.

His  eyes trembled, trying to grasp something, like if sigh, sense, could hold the answer to the knot he felt grasping his bowels.

»Ah... – his lips dropped, a small dry breath escaped – Well.«

He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, frowned while bringing his lips together in a smirk. He crossed his arms, holding onto his elbows.

»Sure, well, do what you want.«

Francis came closer, doubtful, »Did I say something wrong?«

»Look. – Lovino blurted out – You're an adult, we both are, you know you don't have long relationships since your mother passed away.«

»It's...«

»It's two years. I mean... you're desperately searching for Love but I am not sure you're looking for more than just a moment each time.«

»I do, Lovi. – Francis granted – I do.«

The other shrugged again.

»I mean... what's so special about him? Sure, he's nice and cute, weren't all of them?«

»The point is not that...«

»What's so...«

»Lovi, what are we speaking about exactly?«

»Why did your last serious relationship ended?«

»Antonio? – he mumbled – Because we had different visions of our future.«  
»That's diplomatic. For how I remember it he called you a PMS drama queen in love with love and you told him he was emotionally constipated and perpetually wearing the fakest smile on earth to avoid to face how unable of feelings he was.«

»...I am always surprised by your memory.«

»You broke up in front of one hundred people during the New Year's Eve dinner. I am fairly confident it's not carved solely in my mind.«

»Well...«

» _Well_ un paio di palle.«

»What?«

» _Well_ un cazzo.«

»Oh, very much clearer now.«

»Two years, Francis. It's two years that whether for your mom or Tonio, you just fuck around, while hoping Prince Charming or Princess Glamorous is going to pop up in front of you with a giant neon sign arrow-shaped and glitters at the ground, just to be sure.«

Francis bit his lips, »Could you avoid simplifying it ridiculing me?«

»You're just there waiting for love but it won't come.«

»Why are you so angry?«

»I am not.«

»Really?«

»Really!«, he shouted, throwing a dish on the ground.

»...I see.«, he grinned, raising his eyebrows, while staring at the shattered porcelain that confirmed his doubts.

Lovino panted a bit, then punched the counter, »I hate working with you! I hate watching you fucking those people and blabbering about how Love is important.«

»Why are you so...«

»Because I am one of those people you couldn't love.«

»You're married now, Lovi. You can't be still hurt by that.«

»You never told me why.«

»You never asked!«

»It would have been humiliating.«

»You said it was fine.«

»Do I have to repeat myself, Francis?«

»... it's not about you.«

»I know!«

»And it's not about me.«

»And who it was about? Marie Antoniette? Belmondo?«

»I didn't feel... different. I never did. Whoever I was with, long or short, I couldn't feel in me any fire, any poetry. All the things I read about Love seemed fake. I almost thought Love couldn't exist, that I overrated it. – he breathed in – I didn't start cutting relationships short because I'm shielded, but because I started to see sooner if it could have worked.«

Francis breathed out in a long sigh of relief.

Lovino stared at him, shivering slightly.

He felt his hands getting harder, like he had stone in his veins growing bigger and heavier.

»So you're telling me that... this time, this time with this American boy you don't even know, this time is different.«

»I don't know what's going to be, we just... started, kissed, but... I do feel different.«

»Mh?«

»It feels... sparkly.«

Like a fresh wine, like a starry night.

Alfred felt like pieces he considered broken and spare found their places into his heart. He felt rebuilt, stronger and better.

He had this subtle feeling of his heart being lifted and beauty trembling in the sky.

Lovino nodded, clicking the tongue on his palate, trying to suppress a weird sensation.

»Fine... you have carte blanche in this.«

Francis smiled, hugging him, »Thank you. – his eyes seemed brighter than usual, his smile more honest and less flirty – I'll try to behave.«

»Don't make promises you can't keep.«

Lovino collected the shards of the broken dish and collected them into a red rag, thinking to himself. Then he remembered, »What else did you want to ask when you came here so early?«

»Can you prepare everything this afternoon? I have to go to the county.«

»No problem. Just be here tonight.«

 

* * *

 

 

The sky seemed swollen with white inflated clouds, cut and shred by the long black leafy foliage of the cypresses on the side of the road.

The slight breeze created by the speed shook his hair and the smoke of the cigarette he was keeping into an hand, drumming with the other over the steering wheel, nervously.

The radio speaker was announcing enthusiastically songs of people he didn't even knew the existence of until some seconds before, whose voices melted in a mass of lack of uniqueness or substance.

»Bah, American pop...«

He breathed in the smoke and then let it flow out from his lips, slowly, in a puff.

As he saw the white, worn-out walls he knew, he stopped the car. He met again the ruined plaster, the weak ivy creeping from holes and tightening its grasp around the dry building. Spider webs hung, hanged, onto dead camarine noire plants, desiccated and eaten up by the moss and the mold.

He got out of the car, parking it right next to a sad wisteria robbed of his youth, holding and rallying around itself, with a shy rain of purple, delicate flowers.

Francis walked through the gates of rusty iron, on which still sat an old sign, now reddish and burnt, with »town cemetery« written on.

His hands clenched the little plastic bag and the bouquet he brought with him. He took a big breath and sighed before walking in the direction of the tomb he was searching for.

The small road between the graves was filled with little milky gravel that rubbed under his soles with scratching sounds.

Over him, the sun was cold and distant, tainted by a sallow shade.

Around, most of the flowers laying on the granite tombs were positively dried, almost mummified and whitened by dust. Winter seemed to be still lingering inside the walls of that cemetery, months after the end of the cold season in the rest of his world.

His mother asked to rest right next to her own, cremated and poured into a small black urn right at the feet of her parent. There was a small double photo, with an iron frame, portraying both of them: the older, with the curly grey hair resting on her shoulder, and the younger, with a gentle smile shining on her face.

»Mom... – he bowed the head a little - ... grandmother... – he knelt down - ...nice to see you again.«

He passed his fingers over the dusty surface in marble and iron.

»Mh... I should have come more often, I am sorry, but coming in the country to visit you takes some time.«

Francis started biting his lips, looking around, then gave a silent sigh.

The small graveyard didn't have many visitors, it seemed like a cold desert of forgotten stones and putrefied hopes, over which lingered a fat cloud of loneliness.

»Hey, mom... you know, Monique grew up really nicely in these months. She... she is blooming even more. She is really a woman now... – a laugh – I guess I am quite useless at this point. – he rubbed under his nose – Ah... she is working well, I told you, and she seems to be happy. I am sure she will be. I trust her in this, because she was always stronger than the both of us. We were the dreamers, she was the one that brings it to reality.«

He stared at the cupola of silence that was the sky, broken by lost crows, circling around and crying. Francis sucked his lips.

He put on the tomb the bouquet of white roses, »Your favorite.«, and then from the plastic bag he picked a small box.

»Remember when you said that ancient populations put food over and inside tombs? I figured out that, as a chef, I could have gave it a try. It's chocolate cake. I'll make it on Easter dinner, you've a special VIP pass for the preview.«

He fell silent again, wind brushing off from his shoulders the leftovers of the warmth of the car.

»Sometimes I still miss you. – he bit his bottom lip – Not like so much I couldn't breathe, but enough for wondering if you're fine and feeling stupid because you can't feel fine... you can't feel in any way anymore.«

He rested on his knees for a while, looking at the gravel and the sky.

Francis smiled, »But I figured out how to move on. I always believed that the beautiful things, the happy moments, make the scale heavier than the sad moments. – he nodded – Now it might seem dark, but happiness will always find its way and it's worth going on for the moment it will.«

He stood up and dusted off the completely clean suit, just to be sure.

»Now I have to put what I believe in into practice and be happy.«

He found a new smile in himself and went outside the cemetery, keeping the hands in his pockets, wondering where to find a good coffee and starting to feel it.

Starting to feel that he was being himself again.

 

* * *

 

 

Feliciano entered in the kitchen, looking around, a bit disoriented and bewildered by the weird atmosphere. He found his brother sitting on the chair, eyes closed, next to food prepared in advance for the evening .

»Are you sleeping?«, Feliciano asked, bowing a bit.

»Yes.«, Lovino replied without opening his eyes.

»I see... wait... you're awake.«

»Congratulations.«

»What's wrong? You look horrible.«

»Nothing, caught in the nostalgic memories of being an only child...«

Feliciano frowned and Lovino seemed to regret the joke, even without being scolded.

»Sorry.«

»Can I know what's wrong now? You have a more dejected face than Hugh Grant.«

»Is it even possible?«

»Apparently. – Feliciano sat next to him – Did you fight with Emma?«

»No... no, she is fine.«

»Francis then?«

»Maybe. – Lovino sighed in annoyance – We had a fight today.«

»About?«

»About a thing of years ago... nothing important.«

Feliciano blinked, »You mean that time in which you fucked for some weeks and then you scratched his car with the keys because you broke up?«

»Yeah...«

Feliciano stole a strawberry from the counter, »How I wish people stopped trying to hide things from me thinking I couldn't figure them out by myself.«

»No offence, but you behave like a fool or a sap most of the time.«

»That's my easy-going side. – he stole another fruit – So... what is the problem?«

»Why don't you tell me since you know everything?«

»He fucked the pretty new boy? Alfred, right? And you got angry because you saw it as a lack of respect for your authority, but he said that he really likes him, and he does, you can see it from meters away, and claimed it's okay for love...«

»Almost. They just kissed though.«

»Just a kiss?«

»A night of kisses, for what I understood.«

Feliciano sucked another strawberry, licking his lips and munching the pulp slowly, »That's kinda romantic.«

»Don't start you too...«

»Why are you so down about this, though?«

Lovino hesitated a moment, tapping the table with his fingers, pouting to himself.

»I guess I just feel stupid. – he said – It was easier to think that he really couldn't love anyone than imagining that he just needed the right person.«

»Well, usually people think the opposite and they end up sad anyway, you know? I suppose both ideas are okay, you just needed to know it was not your fault or you lacking of anything, which is true. Maybe he was really just in search of the right person and was not cold-hearted or disillusioned, but the point is still the same... – Feliciano smiled, caressing the brother's hair – You and him were not meant to be. And that's fine. – he laughed a bit – If you two were still together, what would be of Emma? She would be always alone, no? You are not Francis' the one, but you are Emma's the one. You are fine and loved for who you are.«

Lovino sniffed, dried a bit his nose with the side of the end.

»Stop being a mushy schmaltzy cornball.«

»Ssssh... – Feliciano hugged the older brother forcefully – Come here, come in the nest.«

»...mushy.«

»Don't fake protests, I know who you are.«

Lovino grumbled.

»Why don't you take the evening off? You could go out with Emma, relax, we can manage it here for once.«, Feliciano reassured.

»Nah, if I left the boat to you and Francis, you would end up offering wine to the beautiful clients and giving out free desserts.«

»Coming to think of it... where is Francis?«

»Francis! – Alfred entered in the building quickly, panting and sweating, clearly after running – We have to talk.«

As he look, he found the two Italian brothers looking at him, the younger with concern and the older one with homicidal annoyance.

»The most wanted chef of Paris is not here to entertain. I guess your work will have to do in the meantime.«

Alfred scratched his nape, embarrassed.

»Sorry...«

»No no, it's a pleasure to see something brings you to work with such zeal. – Lovino grinned – And I imagine our chef's other talent sure is more easy to provoke fervour than the cooking one.«

Feliciano rolled his eyes on the ceiling, giving silently up his brother's soul.

»Do any of you know where he is?«

»He is coming back soon. – he looked straight in Alfred's eyes – Can I bum a cigarette?«

»Lovi, you said you quitted.«

»Oh, shut up, Feli. The TV show Emma watches are way worse for my health.«

Alfred smiled a bit shy, »I don't really smoke, but I have a packet from Francis...«

»I see, you already exchange stuff.«

»Uh? – Alfred seemed confused – I... he gave me his jacket last evening and I found them there.«

»Francis always smoked too much.«, Feliciano mumbled to himself.

The American guy frowned a bit, perplexed by the atmosphere.

»Emh, I am not sure if it's a inner joke or not, but... is there a problem if me and Francis met outside the work?«

»Pft, nah. If there were such a clause in the contract, I should fire all my personelle.«

»Lovi!«

Alfred seemed to be hit by a truck in the stomach. He tried to use a smile, but it came out faint and weak.

»Is he really such a flirt?«

»He has worse flaws, if that's the question.«

»Lovi, stop being mean.«

»It's okay... – Alfred granted – It's all fine... I'll change to the uniform, okay?«, he mumbled, leaving the room for the toilet.

Feliciano followed the waiter, then gave a slap on the head of his brother.

»Ouch! What's wrong?«

»You were insensitive.«

»I always am.«

»No, you always pretend to be.«

Lovino pretended not to listen further, but he felt the sting of guilt, even though, he said to himself he didn't say something to far away from the truth.

He remembered how Francis described Alfred... sparkly.

He felt nauseous.

 


	8. 8

Sorry to everyone who reads this story ! This chapter arrived almost a month after the other, so basically two weeks later than usual. I am very sorry due to the holidays, the family, studying and other issues, I didn't have a lot of time to write.

**#8**

"Good morning, everyone. - Francis entered, smiling, with a big bouquet of flowers in his hands - How is it going?"  
Feliciano ran to him, which resulted in a mixed between a hug and a bowling strike. Francis backed up a bit, while still being held, and chuckled, "Hey! What happened?"  
"Lovino is unbearable today."  
"Ah, mea culpa, we had an argument... - he moved a bit - Did you see...?"  
Feliciano blinked slowly.  
He understood, somehow.  
He always did, with everyone. People often misjudged him due to his lack of discipline or his air-headed nature, but he never gave anything more attention than the emotions of others. He was a calm, quiet bird, looking from outside the window and understanding the weird habits and the sad dreams of a family.  
"Alfred is preparing the room."  
"Thank you."  
Feliciano seemed doubtful and sad, "Fran...?"  
"Sì?"  
"Why do you think people do bad things sometimes?"  
"Fear, I believe... - he turned and smiled at the other cook, a bit sad and worried - Are you fine? Is something bothering you?"  
"No, not really... ", Feliciano lied, turning towards the boiling water behind them.  
He reached for the pans, mixed the food inside, smiling and singing an old song. Feliciano was always like that: soothing.  
He was this very weird, very tender cook and friend, who whispers to the sauce, murmuring 'sshh, all fine, calm down' and that comes to your house at midnight uninvited because he knows you were sad.  
Francis smiled.  
Feliciano was many things he didn't ever manage to be.  
Even if Francis knew, at the core, they were very similar: trying to put out a smile even when they felt sadness creeping closer and knocking. They both held tightly to the belief that happiness would have come again eventually.  
The chef opened the door to the dining room, finding Alfred looking around, checking the tables and the exposed wines. He was so beautiful: he had that aura, like a deer, easily-scared and fragile, until you could see his burning blue eyes, eager and stong, until you got blinded by the lion.  
The thing Francis was still not sure about was which of the two was the core: the fragile or the strong?  
How did they mix in his heart?  
In his deepest side, in the bottom of his stomach, was he the frightened prey or the proud beast?  
He arrived behind him, smiling, feeling his face lighter.  
He remembered a song by Leonard Cohen that said “There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in” , and Francis realized that he felt it – vibrating over the thin surface of his skin, the reason that troubled him so beautifully about Alfred.  
Alfred was his crack.  
And the light got it.  
And Francis was afraid, because he had been wanting light for all his life and now it seemed true... but a scary bet.  
He smiled, “Good to see you.”  
Alfred didn't reply, stubbornly staring at the wines; Francis blinked a bit, doubtful, and waited a few seconds for a reply. A weird, sour, bitter tide infected his mouth with it’s taste.  
“Hey...”, he tried again, weakly.  
Alfred sucked his bottom lip, nervously, trying not to respond or maybe trying to find the perfect pitch of voice.  
“Good afternoon...”  
Francis shivered, capturing something wrong, but he smiled again, a bit forcefully, his eyes betraying his actual sadness.  
“How are you?”  
“I'm fine. - Alfred's voice was metallic – And you?”  
Francis hesitated, feeling a clench squeezing his heart like a ripe fruit.  
“Something wrong?”  
Alfred swallowed, “Should there be?”  
“No... I mean, if there is, we can speak about it.”  
Alfred chuckled, “There is nothing to speak about, really.”  
Francis stared at him a bit, but the waiter seemed to ignore him to focus on his normal job. He couldn't find any other words to say: even if there was clearly something off, Alfred basically shut him up and refused to speak- so what could have he done?  
“...I am sorry if I instist, but...”  
But he really liked him.  
It was painful to see him so distant, so cold. It was painful to be left aside and not even powerlful enough to start a conversation.  
“But?”  
“You are acting a bit different and...”  
“I'm fine.”, Alfred almost roared in a smile.  
Francis felt the pulp of the fruit reaching the emptiness inside him.  
The air around the boy seemed to boil in anger and indifference.  
“I... - Francis knew there was no arrow in his chest, but this didn't stop him from feeling it - ...I will go to the kitchen, okay?”  
“Ok.”  
He entered again in his realm, but he didn't feel at home; he couldn't.  
His mind was racing towards the evening before, trying to understand why Alfred would be so angry at him, what happened that made him loathe him in such little time.  
Francis decided to mentally list the possibilities: first, he was absolutely not ready to start a relationship and he felt awkward because Francis also happens to be his boss, he changed his mind and regretted it but preferred to get angry at him rather than sad, in those hours Alfred had listed all of the flaws Francis had up to the point in which Francis seemed like Stalin’s ugly brother.   
He didn't know what to pick and started biting his nails and munching them, while cooking and preparing mainly on his faithful autopilot.  
Lovino came next to him at some point, putting the finished dished on the counter for the waiter to take away, then proceeded to stare at the other in silence.  
He bit his lips angryly, finding him so upset.  
Over what, after all?  
Over a pretty face and some disillusion?  
Francis stared at the mushrooms, mixing them slowly, adding parsely almost without realizing it.   
What did he do that was wrong?  
How could he be so stupid?  
He liked that boy and he destroyed it even before it started with a mistake he committed so carelessly he couldn't even remember? That was not like him...  
Perhaps, for real, the love he dreamed so much, the one that seemed to be arriving, perhaps that love never did exist to start with.  
He was just daydreaming, pathetically daydreaming, so much that he found what he was searching for.  
With hindsight, he just liked this boy, but he had no reason to think something could have happened, so why would he be disappointed now?  
There was nothing to be disappointed in.  
Yet, there he was, clenching his fist around the pan too much.  
“Oh, non la devi mica strangolare, porco dio!”, Lovino shouted, taking the pan away from Francis' hands.  
Most people in the kitchen turned, Feliciano came closer, “Something wrong, chef?”  
Lovino replied for both, “He is preforming Sleeping Beauty in the middle of cooking. - he turned to Francis – Go out. Now. Go out, smoke a cigarette, two, three, jerk off, cry, I don't care. Go out, get fresh air inside that empty space you call skull and, when you come back I want to have a chef, not a narcoleptic.”  
Francis nodded, weakly, heading towards the door.  
Feliciano came closer to his brother, “He is in this state because of Alfred. You should tell him what you said, he is probably wondering why he is so angry.”  
“I don't care enough.”  
“Lovino. - the younger brother scolded him – You don't have to tell me or answer out loud, but are you proud of it?”  
The older one fell silent.  
He stared at the door Francis exited from, he stared at the food, less tasty than usual, he stared at the emptiness and the lack of his voice – half-singing old songs – in the kitchen. Maybe, in the end, not being picked, not being the right one, was not really humiliating.  
Sure, it burnt.  
Everyone wants to be loved, but why wanting it from somebody you don't even love? Vanity?  
Was it pride, greed or a twisted need of having one’s ego fed?  
He didn't know, he just knew he felt selfish and evil for that stupid comment – damn, it was sort of true, but still, he knew Francis was really liking that boy. He knew. He saw him and those... those tender blue eyes and the way he blushed a little without noticing and touched his own hair.  
Francis was good at pretending, but when he was not trying to charm anybody his true self shone true and he became really easy to read.  
Like a book.  
A good, familiar, book.  
Maybe that was the thing that happened with Francis: he was making sure not to get hurt, in the end they knew each other since the longest time, so he supposed that Francis knew what he was going to get. And he probably did, somehow.  
It just didn't work and he never understood why.  
He was left in his head, without answers, with many cards and no numbers or figures over them. They were blank and impossible to understand.  
So he made castles with those cards, trying to combine them in a shape, to understand... what was in him that was not good?  
Was it because of Toni or because of Francis' mother?  
Or, then again, was it because of his own personality?  
He never got it, until that moment.  
Francis was right: it didn't feel special. Sure, they had a good time, great sex, funny conversations, but it didn't feel like they were doing anything unique.  
He remembered the first date he had with Emma: her curled lips with the red lipstick, the green dress, the way she smiled, moved, crossed her legs. He remembered how he felt a huge bowling ball in his stomach.  
He remembered touching her hands, right after dinner, pulling her closer and... and then the night seemed brighter.  
“Sparkly”.  
Yes, it seemed so...  
“Where is Alfred?”  
Feliciano smiled, “Serving tables.”  
“As he returns in, tell him I need to speak with him.”  
Feliciano smiled, cleaning his hands into the white apron.

* * *

 

The evening sky was filled in with small, pale stars, the air was chill with a lazy wind blowing to remind birds to hide in their nests. Francis was sitting on a step, right out of the door, next to a spontaneous little bush of violets.  
He breathed out, exhausted.  
He really didn't know what to think.  
He took out his mobile phone, scrolling between the messages, until he arrived to that number he hadn’t used in such a long time. The cigarette in his hand trembled in the night.  
Keeping his breath without noticing, he picked the green button.  
“Hello?”  
The same voice, made shrill and strident by the telephone.  
“Antonio?”  
A small hesitation, then a gulp.   
“Francis? - the voice sounded doubtful, frail in the wind, yet happy – Francis? Is it really you?”  
“Yeah... - he chuckled – Am I bothering you?”  
“No, no, I am completely free!”  
He sounded honest. Francis felt relieved to discover the other was not using his passive-aggressive cortesy pitch.  
Francis licked his top lip, embrarassed and speechless.  
“...do you remember when we broke up?”  
“Ah... well, yes, obviously.”  
“Do you remember before?”  
Antonio frowned, “Did you get amnesia or Alzheimer?”  
Francis laughed, “Pft... no, I... I wanted to know if I was really that much of a disillusioned person. Do I really just fall in love with love and... and-”  
“Fran. - Antonio seemed upset – You shouldn't take words in a fight seriously.”  
“I never knew what to decide: whether they are the most or the less honest...”, he admitted.  
“We were friends a long time before dating, right?”  
“Yes, years.”  
“You know... we worked well, like a well-oiled machine, but at the end of the day, you wanted true love and I just wanted to have a life without tsunamis. You wanted the ocean and I wanted rivers. - he seemed to sigh – There is nothing wrong in wanting the ocean... I was just angry that you didn't want what I needed.”  
Francis nodded, sucking his lips.  
“I... - he chuckled, sadly – I was angry because you never told me... you know.”  
Antonio laughed. And his laugh sounded as fresh and sweet as when they were children, running through school corridors.  
Francis realized when Antonio asked him to go out, he thought maybe that time he wouldn't have been hurt.  
Francis realized he always knew it would have never worked.  
But it was easier to lose when you know you have no chance.  
No throwing all your efforts and honest hopes in the toilet is usually a good deal.  
“You know, Fran, when we broke up, I was angry at you, furiously, absolutely.”  
“Ditto.”  
“...I didn't have any doubt.”  
“You were saying?”  
Antonio faked an offended tone then laughed and it came out a bit metallic in the phone, “But then I started hoping that you could find the ocean and me the river. I started to think that... the Francis I knew, since day one, I really wanted Love to come to. - he coughed a bit – You are a bit of a pussy, ahah.”  
“Do I have to remind you who between the two of us has the bigg...”  
“Fine fine, I was not finished, listen. - Francis became silent – I knew you wouldn't have stopped believing in love, exactly like I wouldn't stop wanting my quiet, practical, safe comfort-zone. And I am very happy we are who we are, both of us.”  
Francis breathed in, catching another bit of the taste of the cigarette, letting it go out too, into the dark of the night.  
“So... - Antonio giggled – Who is the one who sent you in this state of doubt?”  
“... how?”  
“I am oblivious but we were together long enough for me to understand this much.”  
“...he hates me.”  
“It's impossible to hate you.”  
Francis smiled, “Thank you, Toni...”  
Alfred's laugh.  
Alfred's laugh was different.  
It was like light and fire, it shook his stomach, it rested in his ears for days. Alfred's laugh was like pure red inside the heart.  
He never heard a laugh like that.  
“I was tempted to stop believing in love, you know?”  
Antonio scoffed, “You can't.”  
Francis' eyes got watery, he nodded, sucking his lips, “I can't. I really can't.”  
The door behind him opened, showing a figure. Francis stuttered some words and Antonio, laughing, closed the call.  
Alfred was in front of him, with a very embarrassed face, his eyes red as he cried and his hair all ruffled. He looked so cute.  
“Emh... - his voice was rusty and shy - ...can we talk? Do you mind?”, he asked, tilting his head.  
Francis shook his head, taking out another cigarette and lighting it up. He would have needed much more.  
“I suppose I owe you an explanation...”  
“It would be nice. - he admitted, smiling – But, before, can you reply to me?”  
Alfred blinked, “To?”  
“Good evening, Alfred.”, he murmured, gazing in the other's eyes, softly, tenderly.  
Alfred seemed to have wanted to say something, his mouth moving with no sound coming out. His shoulders seemed so tiny, his eyes so big.  
Francis was tempted to just kiss him again, on those lips, full and soft like cherries.  
But he knew he couldn't.  
“Good evening, Francis...”  
Francis smiled, almost a grin, proud and gorgeous.  
“How are you?”, he asked.  
Alfred puffed, breathed out and moved some of his hair away from his face with a fake little boy pout.  
He couldn't hide a genuine, strong smile, under that pout.  
“Now, I'm fine...”


	9. 9

**#9**

* * *

 

 

Steady as the tides of the sea, embracing the sand and covering it.

Steady as the slow dance of the waves, back and forth.

Yes. That's how it felt.

Being close to Alfred was somewhat calming and yet still exciting, like a well-known familiar song in which the singer reaches the highest and lowest notes, or like the most intense old rising of the sun. It just felt good, good in a long series of contradictory ways.

Francis felt pulled, guided towards him.

Alfred had something magnetic that went beyond anything. He couldn't remember ever feeling like that.

He was filled with a sense of waiting and eagerness to discover.

Like when he tried to prepare meringues for the first time or when he watched his first cake rising, when his little scrawny preteen fingers drummed on the table, feverishly, as his eyes were enchanted, his whole mind suspended – “and now?” .

Yes, and now?

And after the meringue starts hardening and the cake is full and swollen?

After the scent is everywhere in the kitchen?

How do you take it out, how do you know when exactly it's ready for sure and you won't mess up the baking time?

It's hard when there’s not enough experience.

And he had experience, a bunch, but not of this kind, not of this depth – because all he had experienced was what he had called love before, what he had hoped love to become, but now his fingers were trembling on the handle of the oven, shivering in fear and excitement. And this could have been love for real.

Because it felt like that.

He really wasn't sure his experience would have been good enough for such a delicate cake.

He swallowed, his throat felt like he had to digest a rock- hard, dry, sharp.

Alfred was walking next to him, at the side of the river, both going home after their shift had ended. He looked absent-minded, kicking pebbles and cans with his sneakers, letting his eyes wander around, on the dark surface of the river or on the dance of the flies and moths around the yellow pallor of lampposts. 

Alfred hummed an unknown tune that melted in the blue shade everything was stained in.

Francis' heart skipped a beat in a bitter clench.

He bit his lips slightly, pulling them.

“So... - he tried to dust off his usual flirty tone of voice – May I offer you something to drink?”

Alfred turned, in visible nervousness, yet... happy? Francis dared to let himself think so.

His voice got warmer, a small, long smile, rose on his face.

“No obligations, promise...”

Alfred hid a smile, “Mh... well, only under one condition.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I’m not really in the mood for alcohol, but there's something else I crave more. - he came closer, staring in Francis' eyes, smirking a bit – So much more, for days.”

Francis felt his skin thicken, shivers pulling it, like a small electric shock.

“Yes?”

“Starbucks.”

“What?”  
“Starbucks. I haven’t had Starbucks in a month. I can't go on relying only on sad syrupless French coffee.”

Francis squinted his eyes, wondering if the boy was joking, but from the determined yet absolutely oblivious expression on his face he deduced not only that Alfred was serious but that his balls were already starting to get control of his brain. 

He sighed heavily.

Alfred tilted his head on the side, puzzled, “Is it that much of a blasphemous request?”

“A bit, but I'm not Italian, so I won't get overly offended about it. - he sighed, stretched a bit and mumbled – Starbucks, Starbucks...”

While Francis was repainting the mental map of the city in his mind, Alfred smiled, sucking his bottom lip slightly. The thick accent in which Francis spoke English was nice.

Francis seemed to reach an eureka.

“There should be one I pass by to go to Shakespeare & company … - he mumbled – I am not completely sure, but if you trust my visual memory, we can try.”

“You remember the whole content of the fridge every day, I would trust your visual memory in a zombie apocalypse.”

Francis laughed.

“That's quite the compliment.”

Alfred tried to laugh, but the sound came out rather choked, as his eyes stopped and lingered on Francis' lips. They were slightly parted, full – in general, Francis' whole mouth seemed big, inviting.

Alfred didn't even want to focus on him, but couldn't stop.

The thoughts. The ideas. The dreams.

Kissing that man, making love to him, letting his whole body and soul be marked and broken by his tender touches.

The chef noticed how he was looking at him, probably, because he smirked, licking his lips slightly, enough quickly to pretend to pretend it was a coincidence.

God, his spine was on fire.

“I- emh... well. I suppose a chef must have a lot of... control abilities.”

“More like control issues.”

Alfred chuckled, “You don't seem the type.”

Francis lit a cigarette and let the smoke invade his lungs, sweetly, like a lullaby.

“Mh. - he winked – You'll have to trust me on this one, then.”

Alfred felt eaten.

Francis' eyes were like an abyss- between the blue and the slight purple haze, there was a black hole.

He felt afraid, suddenly. What if Lovino was right, after all?

What if to Francis he would have been nothing more than a number at the end of the day?

How many people has Francis sleep with?

Yet... when Lovino came back and told him he was a jerk and to give Francis a try... he felt happy. He wanted to speak with Francis.

No, screw it, he wanted to be with Francis. He wanted to kiss him until dawn. He wanted to ride his dick until they both fainted. He wanted to stop thinking about time and his family and duties and everything and just let his heart rest in Francis' arms.

He wanted way more than giving Francis a chance.

He wanted Francis. All of him.

He smiled, embarrassed... thinking for now, he could and should have just gotten a coffee and a bit of a snack. He didn't want to rush.

Also because, unlike Francis', his own experience was... zero. Or better, an almost one.

He bit his tongue, angry at his brother, embittered by the idea of how much he had felt trapped for years.

Alfred remembered Davie just a bit, with the vague and glossy sadness of a lost possibility. He was funny, at first they just played football together.

Then, he forgot about football.

Quite soon, honestly.

Davie had amber hair that shone under the burning July sun, his sweat was sticky but it’s smell was not bad and this sank into Alfred's heart and he could still recall how weird it had been to think sweat could smell good. Davie had a lot of freckles, because his family was partially from the United Kingdom as well, as the woman Alfred was supposed to call mother, and he loved books and botanics, especially flowers.

Davie was the first person he liked.

The first one he told about his mother and the adoption.

At the time, Alfred thought that could be love. Somehow.

It was a clumsy romance, started from shy touches on the field or in the changing room and then lived, with all the sweet fear of two thirteen years olds, behind trees and in the storage room of the school. 

They kissed, eagerly, sheepishly, awkwardly.

One day, Davie insisted on staying over - “nobody knows anyway” , he claimed – at his house, after dinner, with the excuse of a small sleepover. And then... then everything went to pieces, like a dish shattering on the floor.

He could barely put it all together: Davie was taking off his suspenders, hesitating, while kissing him badly, he was panting, a bit panicky, wanting to kiss but also to hide. Then Arthur entered. 

He started shouting.

Indecent.

Indecent. Dirty. Disgusting.

“How could you?”, he asked, while slapping him and ordering Davie to leave.

And then he couldn't, he didn't dare anymore. He refused to even say 'hi' to Davie and Davie didn't insist on it, they just parted, without big words, exactly as they had started.

And time washed it all away.

“Alfred, are you fine?”

He shivered, “Ah... yeah.”

“We’ve arrived.”, Francis murmured, softly, with a kind smile.

Alfred didn't even notice he was walking and, probably, his expression even worried Francis during the small road. He felt a sting of guilt, but the gentle smile on Francis' face made his shoulders soft again.

“Come, let's have a cup of your home.”, he said, offering his right hand and opening the door of the coffeeshop with his left one.

Alfred entered, hesitated, then, in front of the familiar earthly colours, the same glass and the same list he could find in his city, in front of all the things of his home he found, different yet the same, he swallowed and smiled, widely.

“Ah... whoa.”

Francis smiled, looking at Alfred.

He looked so... happy. Simply, strongly, genuinely.

“What would you like?”

“I'm tempted to binge, I admit.”

“Why not? - Francis smiled – If you like the food.”

“Shouldn’t chefs be more into the right measure of things and the delicate equilibrium and stuff?”

“Technically. When we cook. - Francis smirked – But, for what I think, there are few things as beautiful as losing yourself in pleasure, in the passion of what you love.”

Alfred loudly cursed in his mind.

He was about to throw himself on a table, pulling Francis down with him and begging to just be ravished.

“I'll take a raspberry cheesecake and a caffè mocha. - he ordered, trying to avoid screaming – And you?”

“Well, for a real American experience, I'll let you pick for me.”

“Then... - he thought about what Francis might have liked – A cappuccino and a Mi-Cuit Dulce de leche.”

Francis cringed internally as he saw the dimensions of the coffee – compensation was a hard beast to fight – but he decided not to complain. In the end, Alfred was sharing something he loved with him, and for once the value of the kitchen didn't matter.

It was just about love.

They sat at a small table and Alfred drank slowly, playing with the whipped cream a bit – much to Francis' struggle – innocently, or at least so it seemed, and slowly attacking the cake. He spoke a lot, almost blabbering, deliciously enthusiastic, like he was munching clouds.

His hair moved softly as he spoke. He gestured a bit, when he had to explain concepts. Sometimes his legs trembled.

He was movement, dynamism, a tornado.

He was speaking about his childhood, football, then the drama club – his parents forced him to stop it, but he kept loving it anyway, and his collection of movies and that day he saw the Dead Poets Society and cried and decided to go away.

And his eyes were shining.

And his smile was enchanting.

And he really was pure red.

Francis bent forward over the table, slowly, like a big feline, perfectly smooth and stealthily elegant. 

He kissed him.

He caressed Alfred's cheek, opening his hand, so that the boy could rest against it. He entered into his mouth slowly, his warm, soft mouth, that cave of wonders and sweetness.

The tastes melted, their breaths mixed. Alfred's skin was almost intoxicating, but his mouth was addicting.

Alfred replied after a moment and let himself go to respond to Francis' gentle movements.

Francis' tongue was scorching hot and so big he felt his mouth filled.

He opened his legs, without noticing, moving his whole body, arching his back slightly, adapting to Francis' moves and following them.

Francis' elbow hit the side of a cup, making them both freeze.

The waitress coughed, embarrassed from the background.

With a small laugh, Alfred kissed Francis again, quickly on the lips.

“How do you do it?”

“What?”

“What are you made of that makes it impossible to stop wanting you?”

Francis chuckled and caressed Alfred's lips with his thumb, “Just a pinch of what you are made of, American boy.”

Alfred coughed, flustered.

“God, what a huge flirt.”

“It's a talent.”

“I hate it.”, Alfred laughed, bitterly.

Francis stared, “I like you. I'm not a player. I'm not going to hurt you.”

Alfred found himself in doubt. Not because of Francis, though – he seemed honest and Alfred understood by then that he probably wouldn't have harmed a ladybug.

But he felt so small.

Maybe he should have been honest enough to open up about his lack of experience and how being forced to be in the closet for twenty years made him scared of being left behind, maybe he should have just said 'hey, if we fuck, it's my first time' or claim that he didn't want to be Rapunzel, falling for the first gay topper he met outside the tower; but it wasn't necessary and he knew it. He liked Francis for who Francis was, for that tender, caring and melancholic side that the chef showed him. And a person like that wouldn't have taken him lightly, right?

Also Lovino said that...

Ah.

Love was really a mess. Not for him at all. Ten out of ten wouldn't recommend.

“Alfred... - Francis caressed his hand slightly – You don't have to give it a try, if you feel too scared. I understand. Just... - he stopped looking at him in the eyes, like something got heavier inside his ribs, he frowned – Please, don't speak with me like before today...”

Alfred felt stupid. In the end, he hurt Francis while protecting himself.

Francis didn't seem angry, but his request was heart-felt.

“I... I want to try, but I'm not sure.”

“Can I do something to make you feel safer?”

Alfred drowned in those eyes. He felt his heartbeat being swallowed and disappearing into a dark sea.

Was that mere Lust? Was it the foreboding sense of Love?

All he wanted to say was: “Bruise me” .

He wanted his skin to have the marks and the traces of Francis' touch. He wanted to be paper of flesh poetry and nothing more than that.

He desired eternal hickeys and never-fading bitemarks, traces of lips and teeth, all over his skin, towards his limbs, on his belly and neck.

He wanted Francis to sign him with his love.

He wanted to growl and roar into Francis' ears, making him deaf to the moans of anyone after him. He wanted to sink his nails into his back, deeper and deeper, as deep as Francis would have sunk into him, to leave scars. He wanted him all to himself.

“Do you have something to do after this?”

“Mh... no, no, I don't think so.”

“Then spend the night with me.”

Alfred finished his coffee in a gulp, like he wanted to drink the whole sky and stars with it, the whole night, strangle himself with it and get nauseated and drunk.

Drunk off the night, drunk off Francis.

Francis furrowed his eyebrows, wondering what exactly the younger man meant. Maybe he was not aware of how ambiguous he sounded in French. Maybe he was.

He didn't want to refuse, since he asked him what he could do, but he was not sure it was already time.

What if the cake was still raw inside?

What if it was just too soon?

But the way Alfred moved against him, the way he kissed him back... now, he couldn't stop imagining the impurest of thoughts.

Francis cut his treat in two and got a piece with his fork.

Overly sweet, yet, somewhat, perfect.

* * *

 

 

Francis dug a cave in his heart. There he buried many things.

He buried the empty memories of his mother's perfume, the wish to be loved by his father and now he was ready to bury also his ideal of true love.

He was.

He was suffering, though, like he had to take out one of his own organs from his body.

He was dying just at the idea of giving it up.

And then he realized he couldn't.

Because when he saw Alfred, as they spoke more, as they kissed, as they shared their souls and thoughts, Francis felt alive and stronger and bright. And he felt he couldn't give it up.

He felt true love could be.

It could.

No wishful thinking.

And he was running, and he was rushing, and he was stupidly building up hopes and dreams. He knew. But fuck it.

He liked to rush and feel the air in his face, spitting energy into his hair, lifting his heart.

He liked the rhythm he was reaching.

Love, love, love.

Love was part of Francis. The part he had always wanted.

Alfred was laughing, spinning, dancing in circles under the moon, next to the bridge; the light azure melting with the tender pink seemed to announce dawn was close, but to them it was still evening. It was still the first moment, an eternal moment.

Francis came closer, walking a bit faster, he put a hand on Alfred's waist and pulled him closer.

“Don't keep running away...”

Alfred smiled, feeling a bit drunk by the lack of sleep.

“I'm not running away from you, if not to let you reach me and sink your teeth into me.”

“Do you think I'm a tiger?”, Francis chuckled.

“No, a monster, more definitely.”

Francis felt an arrow piercing his stomach.

“Oh... - he played anyway – Then what, I'm gonna eat you?”

Alfred kissed him, roughly, in a bit of a suffocating greed. He held onto him, putting his arms on his neck and pulling him close, like an order and like a prayer.

Their skins were red from the chilly air of the night, but they both felt like they were burning. Their hands searching insistingly for each other, for the nape or the back, for any little piece they could hold onto.

It was scary to want someone.

It was way scarier to need someone.

As they separated, his heartbeat was still drumming away and his breath was hoarse as he panted.

“Don't leave bones behind to miss you.”

Francis kept Alfred even closer, making any distance between them nothing, and pushed them both against a streetlamp. He forcefully kissed Alfred, stronger and rougher than he ever did, forgetting all he used to think about, forgetting any way to make the kiss romantic or sweet.

It didn't matter anymore.

He wanted Alfred. He craved him.

He didn't need to be romantic, that was romance, that was Love.

Alfred still tasted a bit like coffee and cocoa, Francis could feel it as he could feel his body heat, rising from the coat, and his shivers, running, like horses, through his spine and veins.

Francis moved, and started kissing Alfred's neck, from his ears to where it melted with the collarbone. He was ferocious and ecstatic. 

Alfred let out a high-pitched moan, squirming under Francis' hand.

“God... fuck...”

Francis started sucking the soft flesh of the boy, feeling it pulsing under his tongue and teeth. He could taste the veins pleading mercy and the trembling growing stronger.

His mouth was so warm, so strong, Alfred felt like the blood was leaving his body. His knees were weak, hitting each other. It felt so good he could have fainted.

Alfred rolled his eyes to the sky, biting his lips, while he felt his hips begging to be touched too, his groin summoning the rest of the blood he had, in a desperate plea for attention.

He moaned loudly, as Francis separated.

“Christ...”

On his neck, there was now a dark purple and reddish sign, Francis kissed it gently, but it stung a bit.

Alfred was barely breathing, while the French man started to caress his crotch through his jeans.

“Ah... stop, please...”

His voice sounded wheezy, quavering. His eyes were shining with desire.

“What's wrong?”, Francis asked, worried.

“Let's... go somewhere else.”

The chef seemed to realize just then how fast he was going. He touched his nape, scratching, a bit mortified.

“We don't have to, if you don't feel ready, I mean...”

“Oh, fuck it, Fran. - Alfred kissed him again – Stop speaking.”

The cerulean eyes of Alfred never seemed more obscene and less heavenly.

Or, well, heavenly, but certainly not in a sacred way.

Francis swallowed; his voice came out huskier, almost rough.

“My house or your apartment?”

Ah, good question. Alfred seemed to hesitate on it: where to accumulate memories, where they'd be harder to reach in case of a positive ending or where they'd be too close and hurtful in case of a sad ending?

“Yours. - he smiled – Where we kissed the first time.”

Francis smiled, remembering, tenderly.

The sun was starting to rise behind them, catching them, thieves of dreams in the night, and forcing them to go along with the world. But, no, not for some hours more.

Francis grabbed Alfred's hand and rushed towards the streets with him, kissing him at every corner where they could, hiding behind small doors and trees, then running again, until they could. From time to time, they'd look into each other's eyes just to smile with them.

Letting the joy win, for once.

As they arrived, Francis inserted the keys quickly, nervously, and then guided Alfred to his room. The cat came meowing but both of them seemed to ignore Meringue, until he gave up as well and sat on the sofa alone.

Francis started kissing Alfred again, while opening the door to his room.

A weird memory awoke into him: that time he couldn't sleep and his whole room was blue, crystalline, violent blue, from the shiny moon and the small lake in his garden.

Oh, but now nothing seemed blue, except Alfred's eyes.

And now his heart was so full.

He separated from Alfred just long enough to smile at him and give him space to lay on the bed. The boy smiled back, caressed the sheet and then stared for a second.

“Before, I have to tell you something... - Alfred wavered a bit, not sure how to put it – I, emh...”

He didn't want to say it out loud, he was afraid to put pressure on Francis with it. But he was also afraid if he didn't clearly explain it was his first time, he would have seemed a clumsy disaster and make a really terrible impression and...

Francis kissed his forehead, “If you’ve changed your mind, it's okay. I have all the time in the world for you.”

Alfred shook his head, smiling, pulling Francis by the shirt collar onto the bed with him.

“Go easy on me, clear?”

“I thought you said to not leave leftovers?”, he chuckled.

“Then, - Alfred sucked his lips – … take all of me and then stay.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> Written, while listening to Coeur de Pirate and the French Kiss OST, for my beautiful girlfriend, because, well, to whom else should I write a love story for?  
> Thanks to Lili for helping with opinions!  
> Emma - Human name for Belgium. She doesn't have a canon one so I went by taste.  
> Ubiquity - Being in two places at the same time ;w;" I am sorry if it's a very Italian sentence.  
> Monique - I had to pick a name for Monaco, so...  
> I call Francis' cat Meringue because white, fluffy and fabulous duh.


End file.
